


Erosion

by saintscully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Issues, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medical Conditions, Minor Character Death, POV John Watson, Podfic Welcome, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, X-Files Inspired Case Fic, mentions of dementia, minor character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully
Summary: Sherlock’s father falls ill, leaving the surviving family members broken and rudderless. James Sholto shows up in London unexpectedly, his intentions unclear. John has to navigate the consequences of crime, illness and death and their impact on his frayed relationship with Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 359
Kudos: 295
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020, Sherlock Case Fics Inspired by The X-Files





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first case fic and first explicit smut scene - be kind. See full disclaimer, author notes, ramblings and more scroll down to the end notes. However, heed the tags, please.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, JB.  
> Also, thank you to three wonderful fandom writers for their advice:  
> [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier) \- For insights and guidance regarding William Holmes’ medical condition. It was very helpful in making very critical decisions regarding this story. However, J_Baillier didn’t beta read the story itself so any medical errors are entirely my own!  
> [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution) \- For long and detailed insights into Christmas. Yes, Christmas. We don’t celebrate Christmas where I live, and I needed plenty of help regarding the experience of Christmas in a small village in the UK. 7PercentSolution was very kind to provide answers to my questions. Thank you so much!  
> [Jolie_Black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/profile) for a wonderful piece right here on AO3, [How to Write a Casefic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8042029/chapters/18418816), which I found to be very helpful.
> 
>  **Tumblr**  
>  I am [therealsaintscully](https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and [saintscully2](http://twitter.com/saintscully2) on Twitter. Come say hi.

“Major Sholto," the woman says. "If you don’t mind, I have a long ride back to London.”

James Sholto sits at his desk, keenly aware of the lawyer’s agitated movements around the room. He was a recluse for years, living in this mansion in glorious loneliness. He still finds the presence of others in it somewhat troubling. There was an interlude of companionship, a promise. It turned out to be a rather short and disappointing one. 

He holds an expensive, heavy pen in his hand, twisting and turning it around in solemn contemplation.

“It’s _Mr._ Sholto these days, Jane. You ought to know that by now.” He says coldly. She stares back but says nothing, her patience diminishing quickly.

He stares, unseeing, at the thick pile of papers in front of him. A petition for divorce. This is what he gets for his attempt at giving humanity a second chance. A short, painful marriage he thought would be the end to all his problems. Instead he ended up disappointing himself, his soon-to-be ex-husband, and everyone else around them.

The marriage was doomed from the start. Alexander was his physical therapist for years and years and their closeness blossomed into love. A love that he battled internally, struggling to accept it; his first time openly admitting and succumbing to his attraction to men. Alexander was adamant on marriage and James, getting a new lease on life after recovering from a second near-fatal injury, decided to give Alexander everything he wanted.

But it was for naught. James knows himself better than Alexander ever did. The war had left him a shell of a man and there was very little of his old self left to give someone else. He couldn’t change that, though lord knows he tried. If anything, things between them became worse after the wedding. All the promises James made after recovering from his injury at John Watson’s wedding became a heavy chore, a burden he didn’t want to shoulder. 

His husband of six months left their home without a word four weeks ago and today sent his lawyer in his stead, not even bothering to notify him of his wish to divorce in advance. Ironically enough, Jane is the same lawyer who drafted their marriage agreement.

He puts the pen down.

“This is undignified.” He speaks in her general direction. “If Alexander wishes to divorce he should have spoken to me. I won’t be treated this way.”

“Major Sholto—” The lawyer calls, exasperated.

“It’s **_Mr._ ** Sholto.” He barks at her, then lowers his head in regret. “This pen. He gave it to me when I was finally able to sign my name properly. It took us years of... _He_ chose to marry me. The least he could do is face me when he chooses to divorce me.”

“Mr. Sholto... There’s no point in dragging this along. I know how difficult this is—” 

“Tell him I’ll meet him in London tomorrow,” he says resolutely and moves towards the door. “I won't take no for an answer.”

She sighs loudly as he walks away, leaving his housekeeper to show her out. The faint sounds of her phone conversation reach his ears. Alexander’s voice travels through the house, heard in these rooms for the first time in a month. The lawyer updates Alexander on this recent development. He closes his eyes and looks down at his own phone.

James opens a new text message and browses down until he finds the desired contact details.

He clicks on John Watson's name and starts typing a message. 

* * *

John sits cross legged on a rickety-rackety garden chair, drinking his Sunday morning tea slowly. Rosie’s squealing with joy, having Disneyland-levels of fun playing inside her brand new Princess Castle. It took him hours to construct, cursing and frustrated. It appears as if his brain’s ability to follow instructions had shrunk down to IKEA-level ones, and the Princess Castle proved to be a harder challenge than expected. He was left with some parts that belonged nowhere, he remembers with some worry. Sherlock assured him they’re non-essential, though, and Sherlock is a genius, so... 

The castle stands strong. Rosie is happy, and that’s all that matters, doesn’t it?

He takes another sip, lost in thought staring at the surprisingly bright sky. December has so far been an unseasonably warm, dry month. He supposes this is global warming; the fact that his daughter can play in her castle out in the garden weeks before Christmas is proof enough. 

He picks his phone up again, probably for the tenth time in the last hour, browsing through his text message history. The last two were sent to Sherlock, of course. Who else. A general ‘How are you’ is the first one, an invitation to meet up in Regent’s Park the second. Both sent this morning and remain unanswered.

He sighs in frustration. He’s being ignored. It’s nothing new but it still hurts. Sherlock is the most important person in his life. He still has to wonder sometimes if the sentiment is mutual.

A shiny new 7-seater parks itself in front of the house right across the street. The parents step out first, then five blond children, leaving the car in descending order by height.

 _Ah yes_ , he thinks bitterly. _The fucking Von-Trapps are home._

They’re the perfect suburban family; moved in about a year ago. Edward, the head of the family is a prominent banker. He’s tall, handsome, has a head full of hair and sparkling white teeth ( _“They swing. He enjoys extreme bondage.”_ Sherlock stage-whispered once and John shrugged. Doesn’t everyone these days? _“He’s Pro-Brexit.”_ Sherlock added and John huffed in righteous disgust, feeling vindicated.)

John watches the Von-Trapps with apprehension. He's not like them, is he? They're not like them. He remembers standing on this pavement years ago, looking at what is now Edward’s house in silent grudge. It was his first time coming to look at their house, his first visit with Mary. She was the one who found it when they decided to move in together. He smiled and nodded as they walked around. Yes, he agreed wordlessly. This is the sort of house a married couple lives in. A sensible, quiet neighbourhood. Well kept gardens. Perfect mothers walking around with prams.  
  
He remembers Mary considering paint samples around the house while he stood nailed to the floor, worried he was trapped inside a rerun of The Truman Show. He should have fled right there and then.

Edward senses John’s gaze and turns around to wave hello and nod. John hates Edward but he’s also English. He has no choice. He fakes a smile and waves back.

His blood curdles, dread leaving his body cold. _This is it._ A horrified look dawns on his face. _My biggest nightmare. I’m_ **_living_ ** _it._

John's smile drops unnaturally quickly and turns into a grimace.

This right here, him waving and smiling to a neighbour, was the worst case scenario. The dreaded image his mind conjured up as he watched Sherlock stepping from a tarmac onto an airplane, taking away the last chance for a different life with him. 

It was that thought that flooded his mind while taking the bus to the surgery. It was this exact _quiet desperation_ , suffocating him more with every passing day, that made him not throw away a stranger’s phone number into a bin. 

They were going through the motions back then, he and Mary. No, not going through the motions, he admits. They were outright lying to each other. They lived a fake life they both claimed to want but viscerally hated.

Mary’s gone. She’d been gone for a while. By all rights, he’d been given an out of the life he resented her for. He doesn’t have to live here, he remembers, and his mind buzzes with the realization. So why does he? It’s just him and Rosie now, partners in crime. They gravitate towards Sherlock like moths to a flame, except Sherlock’s flame is much, much dimmer these days.

They've been getting along; things aren't perfect, of course. Since learning about Eurus, Sherlock is subdued. Some days he simply looks like a quieter version of his old self. Other days he’s like an animal, healed but still terrified, afraid to leave its safe hiding place. He gets lost in his head more than usual, if that was at all possible. 

It took some time for Sherlock to accept it, but the fact is that he’s paying the physical price of the drugs, of being shot by Mary, of kicking and punching thugs across London. They still run around, chase criminals, but these cases are few and far between. Many of the cases Sherlock takes these days can be solved more easily and pose less danger for everyone involved. 

Sherlock lets the Yard do more of the roughhousing. John can’t complain. He’s happy Sherlock not only recognizes his physical condition but also acknowledges Rosie's fragility and need for stability.

So no, John can’t complain. He shouldn’t, really. But he lives with the painful realization that he was never really addicted to the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins. 

No, it was never that. 

He was addicted to Sherlock. To his promise of exotic danger, to the rule breaking. To kicking at anything considered proper and acceptable in favor of chaos and uncertainty. 

That Sherlock is gone. He’s not sure where things stand with the current Sherlock. Every day passes with a semblance of their own brand of normal. They exist. They cling to each other. John has no doubt of his importance to the detective, but not a day goes by without John staring at the other man, wondering what Sherlock sees when he looks back at him. A chore? A commitment? A friend? A comforting part-of-the-furniture? A mix of them all? _That’s probably it_ . John thinks. _A weird mix of musts and wants._

He’d contemplated a disruption at some point. There was one week John spent nearly every evening at Baker Street and Sherlock didn’t utter a single syllable. He considered walking up to Sherlock, grabbing him by the chin and turning his face to look at him. “Hey, Sherlock. What do you want? What is this? Do you even know I’m here? Should I go and never come back?”

He didn’t do it. Because he’s a coward, that’s why. He feared the answer, fears it still. It’s a facade, this life they’re living these days, just like the facade of a marriage he and Mary had. It’s a compromise. What for, John isn’t sure. What is Sherlock compromising when he lives like this? What are his other choices? He couldn’t even begin to imagine.

He closes his eyes, defeated. He didn’t expect an existential crisis on a Sunday afternoon while Rosie is shrieking inside a glittery pink-and-purple plastic igloo.

How did he end up here, in his worst nightmare?

He stares at his tea as if the beverage holds any answers. The tea stares silently back, apparently requiring a bit more brewing on this issue. He is pulled out of his reverie when his phone pings; he opens the message and shakes his head when his brain catches on to the fact it’s not from Sherlock.

He frowns at the unexpected message from none other than James Sholto. 

**“Visiting London tomorrow for some errands. Are you available for dinner?”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's note and content warnings:**  
>  Please heed the tags - large chunks of this story will revolve around difficult topics such non-consensual sex, emotional and psychological abuse, family estrangement, serious minor characters illness and death and mentions of suicide. [Reach out to me on tumblr](https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions about this story.
> 
>  **English as a second language:**  
>  While this story was betad, English isn’t my first language and I sometimes make edits post-beta. You shouldn’t find any glaring mistakes in this story but if you do I hope that doesn’t prevent you from reading on and enjoying it.
> 
>  **Case Fic disclaimers:**  
>  This is my fifth fic ever, and my first foray into a case fic (found it very scary to write one so far). The case is [inspired/borrowed from an X-Files case](https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com/post/624258118060326912/my-list-of-x-files-inspired-bbc-sherlock-fic) although there are no supernatural elements to it. I won’t reveal which one (if you know TXF quite well you should recognize it from the prologue). I will add that I am not a mental health/medical/law enforcement expert and everything I wrote in this story is based on information obtained from Google searches specific to the UK.


	2. Dinner at The Bianca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is what it is.” Sherlock says.
> 
> John shuffles his legs uncomfortably upon hearing his own words thrown back at him. _It is what is. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, especially not with you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags were added with the publication of this chapter (the last tags are the most recent).

John sits in his office at the surgery the next day, sipping his first tea of the week. He gathers papers, moves pens, turns the screen on; tries to look busy when the nurse brings him his first patient’s chart.

He stares down at teh document, hoping to make some sense of the words. He can't, because there it is again. The always present, nagging worry in his head.

He looks at his phone. He’d texted Sherlock twice more last night and received no answer. It's been like this for years; he's not sure why he's still surprised. Sometimes Sherlock is busy, sometimes he’s thinking, sometimes he simply doesn't feel like talking. John had to work very hard to not dive headlong into hysterics every time it happens. If anything was really wrong Mycroft would let him know.

Since there's no sign of Mycroft, either in his office or in the form of a conspicuous black car out the window, he takes a deep breath and tries again.

**"Morning. Case?"**

Hoping that would do the trick, he lays his phone down and calls for his first patient.

* * *

Later that day John picks Rosie up from the nursery.

"We're going to see Sherlock," he tells her. "He's been ignoring Daddy. We need to make sure he's alright."

Rosie considers this and nods her head thoughtfully as if she also thinks it's a great idea. He buckles her in her car seat and starts driving and planning the rest of his day. If Sherlock turns out to be alive after all, they’ll stay for an hour or so and discuss their plans for the week. Then they’ll go back to their flat so he can meet the minder. He’ll have to leave for his dinner with James by 7:30 pm at the latest. A tight schedule, but he can make it work.

* * *

John stands patiently behind Rosie, watching her slowly climb the stairs to 221B. His hands do not touch her back but he keeps them close in case she trips. She's no longer toddling and is much more confident when she walks. She still needs to be watched over when taking the stairs, of course, because she tends to daydream and babble and thus miss a step.

They laugh and talk as they ascend. He knows Sherlock can hear them coming. He hopes knowing Rosie is here with him will improve the man's mood and pull him out of whatever strop he's in. It usually does.

He scans the sitting room as they step inside and his eyes land on Mycroft Holmes. The man is sitting stiffly in Sherlock's chair, holding a cup of tea. Mycroft looks over at John as he enters, his expression inscrutable.

 _Oh no_. It's never a good sign to find Mycroft Holmes in this flat.

"What's wrong?" John asks urgently, looking across the flat and finding Sherlock staring down a microscope on the kitchen table. The knot in his stomach becomes smaller.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," Mycroft says. "Am I to understand my brother has been ignoring you too?"

"Just popped in to see how Sherlock's doing." John says, directing his words to Sherlock and not rising to Mycroft’s bait. He moves to his chair and sits down with Rosie in his lap. 

"What's going on?" He asks because the tension in the room is palpable. The brothers had obviously been arguing.

"I'm afraid our father is quite ill, Dr. Watson." Mycroft says, handing John a tablet. When John looks at the screen he sees a medical file. John’s well-trained doctor’s eyes scan the details and the image becomes clear very quickly.

"A stroke." John says, skimming through the scanned documents. Sherlock's father was found unconscious in his home two days earlier due to intracerebral hemorrhage. Not uncommon for a man his age with a history of hypertension and smoking. He's being treated, currently stable but unconscious. 

"Sadly, yes." Mycroft says.

John reads on, frowning when a pre-existing condition catches his eye.

"It says here..." John says quietly, looking at Mycroft. He tries to gauge whether Mycroft is aware of this detail or not. He looks back to find a stock-still Sherlock. "Dementia? With a background of PTSD?"

Mycroft nods, a sad smile on his face.

"There had been signs for a long time, it seems." Mycroft explains. "Small signs, ones our mother either misdiagnosed or dismissed. But it had become impossible to ignore after Eurus. There's a good reason to suspect the events following our sister's escape and recapture accelerated the progress of the disease."

John's heart sinks. He looks at Sherlock, still quiet and detached.

"Sherlock never said.." John says sadly and shakes his head. "I'm sorry to hear that." He directs the words to both siblings.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. It is indeed a very sad turn of events." Mycroft says grimly. "I'm here on behalf of my mother, though. I was asked to convince my brother to visit Father in hospital."

 _Oh._ John finally understands the loud silence that filled the room when he walked in. The unanswered texts, Sherlock’s radio silence. 

The Holmes family had rather fallen apart over the last year since the parents learned the truth about Eurus. They were shocked at first, asking to see Eurus and understand what had happened to her in the years since her supposed death. Then they were angry. John was a witness to only one of what was likely a string of ugly family arguments. After a while, Eurus' condition deteriorated and the family stopped visiting her altogether. With that, the parents simply distanced themselves from their two sons. Bruised and hurt, they each went their separate ways. 

The parents were never really close to their sons and vice versa as far as he could tell. John only knew they even existed when they showed up in Baker Street after Sherlock came back. There was the Christmas at their house; that turned out to be a ruse, a way for Sherlock to get to Magnussen. He wonders still how much of the holiday cheer that year was for his and Mary’s benefit.

As far as John knows, there’s no contact between them at all these days.

On the one hand, he couldn't blame them, any of them. This is such a heavy burden of lies, guilt, and blame to carry and he probably would have acted much the same. On the other, he isn’t sure why Sherlock is being treated the same as Mycroft is. Sherlock was a child who suffered by Eurus’ hands, unaware of his family’s secrets for years. He’s a victim of _their_ collective lies. He was just as shocked to learn of her existence, if not more.

If anything, Mycroft should be the one who gets the brunt of the blame, both by his parents as well as Sherlock. But John supposes there is a long family history full of anger and pain, one he’s never been privy to, that led them where they are right now.

Now though, knowing what he knows about Sherlock's father, things seem even impossibly sadder. He can only imagine how devastating the diagnosis must have been for Sherlock's mother shortly after learning about Eurus.

Why didn’t Sherlock say anything?

"Sherlock." John says softly, balancing Rosie on his hip. He walks towards the man, ignoring his brother. "Let's go for a walk. Or dinner."

"I'm fine, John."

"There's no slide under that microscope, you're examining air." John says with a sad smile. 

"You just want to convince me to visit him.” Sherlock says. 

"I only want to talk, to be fair. I know better than to try to convince you to do anything." John isn't deterred. "Come on, we haven't seen you since Friday. Let me buy you dinner."

Sherlock sighs. He’s not upset, John notes. He seems tired, resigned. “This is none of your business, John.”

He swallows at the dismissal, offended. “None of my business? Sherlock, he's your-” 

“It is what it is.”

John shuffles his legs uncomfortably upon hearing his own words thrown back at him. _It is what is_. _I don’t want to talk about this anymore, especially not with you_.

Sherlock stands up abruptly and walks to the coat rack, wearing his Belstaff and scarf. John’s eyes follow him as he shuts the door silently behind him and leaves the flat. 

Mycroft and John look at each other, each very familiar with their respective roles.

Mycroft leaves. John stays to weather the storm.

He puts Rosie down on the carpet. This is as much a home for her as their flat is. They split their time between the two places; mostly weekdays at their own flat, weekends spent largely at 221B. It’s their current system and it seems to be working, so John doesn’t question it. He keeps a close eye on Sherlock's moods. Sometimes Sherlock needs a break from them and that's fine. Rosie is a troublemaker, and though they get along wonderfully, John understands needing some peace and quiet.

He calls for Italian. Sherlock’s comfort food; plenty of warm, filling carbohydrates. When he hangs up he finds James’ contact and rings.

“Hi. Yeah. I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to make it.” He says, speaking loudly due background noises on James’ side of the call. It sounds like James is already in a restaurant, or maybe a pub. “Something came up. A… family emergency, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” James says, his voice a mix of worry and disappointment. “I’m sorry. I… well, I understand.”

“Maybe tomorrow, if you’re still in town?” John asks.

“No, no. I’m heading back tonight.” James says. “Don’t worry about it. I hope things solve themselves quickly.”

“Yeah, thanks. Thank you for reaching out, though. It was good hearing from you.” John opts for honesty. “Alright, bye then.”

They hang up.

The takeout John ordered arrives soon after. Sherlock steps in a few minutes later while John sets a table for two. Sherlock's hair is tossed, his cheeks pink. He probably spent the hour walking, trying to clear his head.

It’s better than a shouting match, John supposes. Though he can’t remember the last time they actually had a shouting match, to be fairly honest. The thought makes him surprisingly sad.

Rosie is oblivious to the man’s mood. She follows Sherlock around the flat like a duckling, vying for his attention. He heads for his bedroom for a change of clothes as Rosie toddles behind him and waits by the closed door. John looks at this interaction, amused despite the grim mood in the flat. He supposes following Sherlock around is what Watsons are programmed to do. 

When Sherlock opens the door, she’s right there, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. She sucks her thumb and sends a toothy grin his way. Sherlock sends one in return. 

“Up!” She orders, still chewing on her fingers.

Sherlock lifts her up and balances her on his hip. “Your father wants to eat, Watson. I suppose we must cooperate.” He says, adding a suffering sigh for effect. He sits with her in his lap. They eat in silence.

“I’m not going.” Sherlock says eventually. He is placid when he speaks, in a way you can only be when fate has brought you one blow too many.

“I can come with you.”

Sherlock shakes his head, looks at Rosie instead of him as he speaks. “They were angry, after Eurus. They said they didn’t want anything to do with us.”

John exhales loudly, his heart aching. He didn’t realize such harsh words were actually said.

His mind goes back to the period immediately after Eurus. Sherlock’s mother was furious, distraught - justifiedly so. She was the one who did all the talking, spoke harshly. His father was quiet. To John he looked introspective at the time. Maybe in shock, John remembers speculating. Looking back on it, John now sees that silence for what it was.

“To be fair, Sherlock, given the timeframe and the progression of his disease... It’s very possible your father was already very confused at the time. He probably wasn’t even fully comprehending what was happening. I doubt he was aware that he was being distant, and I doubt even more that he meant any harm.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. You don’t know. I don’t see the benefit of visiting a man I can’t be sure would even want me there.”

John clears his throat, worried about the reception of his next suggestion. “Would it bother you if I go?”

Sherlock eyes John suspiciously. 

“Why would you do that?”

“Because... I’d like to do something for you. You’re always the one who does things for me. This is clearly... Difficult for you. I can go as a family friend, make sure he’s being treated properly. Maybe talk to his doctors.”

“I can assure you Mycroft had arranged for the best doctors one can find to treat him.” Sherlock says in a dismissive tone. 

“Having great doctors is never the same as having a loved one with you in the hospital. You were hospitalized, you ought to know that yourself.”

Sherlock sighs. “John, can we not do this now?”

“Do what, talk? You’ve been ignoring me for days.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Staring at empty microscope slides. Sherlock, what the hell is going on with you?”

“I told you what's going on with me, John. I just don't see the point of going.”

John’s temper is just about to flare so he takes a deep breath before he speaks again.

“Alright. Then I have to tell you this because otherwise, it’ll be on my conscience. I read his file, Sherlock, and it doesn’t look good-”

“I know it doesn’t look good, John!” Sherlock raises his voice in frustration, unable to look John in the eyes. “You’re not the only one who can read a medical chart!”

“Then you know he might not make it. Sherlock, he’s your father! There is _nothing_ , absolutely _nothing_ , Rosie could ever do that would make her unwelcome by my side if I were in his condition. She’s my child and I’ll always want her near. I don’t know your father well but I’ve seen enough to know he would have liked to have you by his side in a time like this.” John stops and lets the words sink in. “I was on my deathbed once and all I wanted at that moment was to have the people I love by my side. And when it happens again, I’ll want them there. For the record, that means Rosie. And _you,_ no matter what.”

Sherlock clears his throat and readjusts Rosie in his lap.

“If you don’t want to go, that’s your choice. And if you’d rather I don't go, I won’t.” John continues. “But he is your father. He raised you, he fed you, he cared for you. That’s plenty more than many other people get. He may not have been a perfect father - god knows I'm not. No father is. But it would be wrong to abandon him, to miss a chance to say goodbye over a misunderstanding or some misguided guilt. You’ll never forgive yourself, Sherlock, and I don’t want that for you. Just… Think about it.” John says, his last words soft and pleading.

"Alright." Sherlock says begrudgingly, happy the discussion is over.

The rest of the evening passes in silence. Sherlock is pensive, burdened by John’s brutally honest words. He’d taken a risk by speaking up. The man is very rarely open to listening and even if he does, his retorts can be as venomous as a snake bite. 

But what’s the point of sticking to surface level at this point? The Holmeses reached this dreadful situation by constantly choosing to lie, to obfuscate, to tell half-truths. 

There are lies in every family. He knows that first hand. He experienced it as a son and as a brother. He swore to escape the pattern and do better as a husband. He failed miserably at that, didn’t he? Instead of, for once, doing better, his marriage was so much worse.

And it breaks his heart. This cycle won’t end with him, will it? He’s going to have to lie again, to a certain extent, to Rosie. There will come a day when she asks about her mother. And what can he tell her that will settle her mind and won’t tear at her heart?

Yes, he can say her mother was funny. She was. He can say she was bright, because she was. But what about the deceit? What about the betrayal? How do you say, ‘yes, I married your mother but everything I knew about her was a lie’? How does one explain to an offspring, no matter what age, that their mother was a paid assassin by choice?

He looks at Rosie in Sherlock’s lap. Not six months ago she still had trouble sleeping. If that happened when they were in Baker Street, Rosie would get so sick of her father’s attempts to get her to sleep she would beg and cry to be handed over to Sherlock. His voice soothing, his presence calm, she would only relax in his arms sometimes.

How will he ever tell her that her mother had shot Sherlock? That the person who would soothe her as a baby was essentially dead, twice, by the hands of her own mother?

You can’t tell your child these things, can you? Not when they’re 18, not when they’re 50. Truth of that magnitude can shake someone’s entire existence. But how do you live an honest life with the people you love without hiding some terrible things? He can’t, in that sense, judge Sherlock’s parents. He’s aching to, but the truth is that in a few years he’ll make the same choices they did. As a parent, you do whatever you can to protect your child. Sometimes that means lying.

John watches as Sherlock wordlessly gets up from the table, placing Rosie gently in John’s chair. He then takes his violin and starts playing. John doesn’t recognize the tune, but he rarely does anyway. He doesn’t need to know it to recognize the confusion, the frustration.

John holds tightly onto the kitchen table. He wishes he could go up to him, take the violin from his hands and hug him for a long, long time. Sherlock did that for him once it meant the world. It was everything he needed at that moment.

Right now Sherlock’s body language signals John to leave him alone. A hug is probably the last thing Sherlock wants.

John clears the boxes, cleaning up quickly. He goes to join Rosie in his chair and they watch Sherlock in companionable silence.

* * *

On the other side of London, James Sholto stares at rows and rows of shelves full of liquor bottles. He had to give up the seats he’d reserved for him and John. He sits at the bar, the place full of loud, drunk people.

 _Family emergency_ , he thinks bitterly. _The oldest, least imaginative excuse in the book_. Vague. Formal. One can’t argue with a family emergency. Why agree to meet if you were planning on cancelling anyway?

He should just call it a day. He signed the divorce papers earlier; Alexander looked at him with a mix of fear and disdain, as if he were a monster. James gave him the pen and his ring back and left without a word.

_So much for that._

“Excuse me. Are you holding this seat?” A voice asks from behind.

He turns around. It’s a thin, brown-haired man. He smiles hesitantly at James.

“Go ahead.” James says quickly and turns back to his drink.

“What can I get you, sir?” The bartender asks.

“Whisky, please. On the rocks.” The man says. “Today only whisky will do.” He frowns and looks at James for a response. James allows a quick, sad smile and half-turns his face, avoiding showing the other side. He’s used to people’s responses to his burns but he can’t take one now. 

“Thanks.” The stranger says.

“What for?” James asks, unbothered.

“For giving me the seat. There’s a woman behind you, the one in the purple dress.” The man says and they both watch her through the mirrors installed in front of them. The mirrors reflect the entire establishment. “She wouldn’t stop touching me. Maybe if she sees that I’m not alone she’ll let me go.”

James nods. “Yes, very few people understand that sometimes you just want to be left alone.”

The man turns his head fully towards him, his eyes piercing. “Do you?”

* * *

Tuesday comes and goes. John goes to work but stays close to Baker Street. He can feel a storm brewing and he needs to be there when it hits.

He spends the evening being largely ignored by a violin-playing Sherlock. Rosie and John are curled together on the sofa watching a YouTube video. 

Sherlock stops playing abruptly. John raises his head to look at the detective.

Sherlock, his eyes staring at passers-by on the street, simply asks: “Are you available tomorrow evening?”

“Yes.” John nods, surprised by the invitation to join Sherlock. “Of course I am.”

* * *

The next morning John meets Sherlock at the Yard. They both just signed their statements about a case they solved the previous week. Sherlock is bored with the bureaucracy while John texts with a colleague from the clinic.

They’re sitting in Lestrade’s office when the DI takes a sip from his coffee and browses incoming live reports from unfolding crime scenes.

Lestrade’s brows furrow when something catches his eye.

“John?” He asks, his voice unsure. “Your friend. Sholto?” Both John and Sherlock raise their heads towards Lestrade in surprise. John squints at the lack of context. 

“What about him?” John asks.

“That’s his name, right?” Lestrade turns and looks at John. “James Sholto?”

John nods.

“I have a report about him here.” Lestrade points at the screen, as if in disbelief. “He’s.. being questioned as a potential suspect in a murder.”

“What?!” John and Sherlock call simultaneously. Sherlock's mood changes drastically. He starts tapping at his phone, looking up further information.

“Y..yeah.” Lestrade says carefully as he reads. “He was found by a maintenance crew in a room in a hotel near Paddington Station. Checked in on Monday night, was found earlier this morning. His ex-husband reported him missing. There was a body next to him in bed.”

John freezes when the details of the dinner they were supposed to have on Monday evening start rushing through his head.

“What?” John blinks, the deluge of details causing his brain to stutter. “His.. what? That’s… It can’t be.”

Lestrade shrugs. “You never know with these things.”

“No, I mean.. Greg. That’s... Impossible. I only just talked to him, he was fine.” The words slip before he has a chance to contemplate the consequences. Two sets of detective’s eyes narrow and focus squarely on him. He can feel the oxygen leave the room at once.

“When?” Lestrade asks and looks at Sherlock, surprised at the new bit of information.

John clears his throat and steals a glance at Sherlock, too. “Monday. Monday evening.”

“Why?” Lestrade’s eyes narrow even further.

John’s lips turn into a straight line. He knows he’s about to be incredibly misunderstood by everyone involved.

“We were ah...we were supposed to meet up. For dinner. But I called and cancelled at the last minute. Ah.. Couldn’t go. He was in a bar or a pub, someplace crowded. He didn’t sound drunk or anything.”

John feels Sherlock’s stare like a laser beam. John never mentioned the dinner plans to Sherlock; James Sholto was an uncomfortable part of John’s past and he knew Sherlock could tell as much. They never really discussed _what_ made it so uncomfortable which was probably a mistake because here it is, hanging uneasily between them.

“Where were you supposed to meet?” Lestrade asks.

“Ahh...” John scans his brain to make sure he’s getting it right. “The Bianca, I think it’s called. Near Lisson Grove.” 

“Yeah...” Lestrade nods. “That’s the name of the hotel he was found in.”

Lestrade stares wordlessly at John for a long minute. He picks his phone up and makes a phone call, talking to a colleague, and asking for further details.

“Sherlock…” John whispers. “Sherlock, listen..” He wants to explain ( _Explain what, exactly?_ Not _going for dinner?)_ but Lestrade cuts him off.

“Sholto’s still at the hotel, being questioned. Not very cooperative, it seems he's been knocked out for more than 24 hours. I asked if they can hold him a bit longer for us.” Lestrade reports. “The body is on its way to the mortuary as we speak.”

John’s jaw falls open when he realizes that Lestrade’s offering that they join him in this case. It hadn’t even crossed John’s mind. 

“I’ll come with you, Lestrade.” Sherlock stands up swiftly.

“Yeah.” Lestrade stands up as well.

Sherlock finally looks at John. If John didn’t know any better he’d swear Sherlock looks… worried. Not angry. Well, not only angry. 

“Ah..” John looks between the two of them. “What about me?”

Sherlock and Lestrade exchange a short, apprehensive look.

“Maybe the mortuary? Try to get ahead on things? Just in case, you know.” Lestrade offers apologetically. 

_Just in case... what?_

“Sherlock!” John calls and Sherlock finally turns to look at him.

“I’ll take care of it, John.” He says, his voice distant and determined. 

“Take care of what?” John calls as they leave but the two are gone.


	3. Nathan Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where could you be possibly off to at a time like this?”
> 
> John shakes his head in confusion. “What do you..?”
> 
> “Sholto invites you to dinner on the day of his divorce and turns up in bed with a dead man not 48 hours later. I find that a bit suspicious.”

John sits huddled in the back of the mortuary. He’s watching Molly’s assistant, Lucas-something, as he performs an initial examination of the body that was sent over from the hotel.

He stares blankly into space, only half listening. The body is a man’s body. James was found in bed with him after his ex-husband reported him missing.

John had no idea.

He had no idea that James was married, let alone to a man. He didn’t know James Sholto books rooms to spend nights in with men he probably met that same evening. His brain short circuits when he considers what the purpose of inviting him to dinner was.

He’s dizzy with the possibilities, the questions, the confusion. 

Was this an invitation for..? What exactly? It doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense at all, given their history.

James was never interested in John. The burst of memories makes his heart pang in that dull way when the thought of an old, dead love is brought front and centre again.

John met James on the first day of his last tour in Afghanistan and he fell immediately, stupendously in love with him. It was the first time he fell ever fell in love (and with a man, no less) - but _he did_ , hard and fast. He couldn't deny it if he wanted to.

It was a love painfully, heartbreakingly unrequited. James knew. He ignored it for a long time and never addressed it. One day, about six months into the tour, he turned and looked at John. He told him it was inappropriate and undesired.

“I’m not like that.” James said coldly and nailed John to the ground with a long, warning stare before walking away. And that was that. It was never discussed again.

John knew it was inappropriate. He knew it was impossible, what with ranks and military orders. He could accept that it was unrequited, too. But he found James’ words harsh and cruel, and he distanced himself since then. Not only from James; he distanced himself from men, dismissing his feelings for him as a lonely soldier’s misplaced melancholy.

By the time his wedding took place, John felt like enough time had passed. Bill Murray urged John to invite their old commander and John felt like he could handle it, so he did. Also, Mary insisted. She refused to give up on any viable guest, no matter how awkward it made John feel. 

His stomach turned when he first laid eyes on him at the reception, but things turned… well, murder-y very quickly and John was distracted. By Sherlock, as usual. _And your blushing bride_ , his brain supplements. 

_Right_ , he thinks. _Her too_.

They texted briefly for a few days after the wedding, during the honeymoon. John checked in on his condition a few times and never heard from James again until that text on a Sunday afternoon.

The text was surprising and John hesitated. Everything he experienced with James since the day he rejected him was brief, blundering, and uncomfortable. John couldn’t imagine why he’d like to meet - he’d mentioned errands in London. John agreed because he couldn’t think of a reason not to. However, once he stepped inside Baker Street and learned about Sherlock’s father, James was no longer a priority.

Is James Sholto a murderer? He doesn’t think so, but Lestrade was right earlier. These things happen to people, he’s worked long enough with Sherlock to know that. What did he ever really know about James? He knew him as a commanding officer and trusted him, sure. But since then? The man, much like Sherlock, had always been an enigma to John, maybe even more so. James had been through a lot and never really accepted help. These things, these traumas, they change people.

He frowns when he remembers that only a few hours ago he was preoccupied with Sherlock's father's condition. Trauma bruises the mind, sometimes to a point of no return - William Holmes is another example of that. Who knows what James has been going through, what brought a man who swore to lonely seclusion to visit London and meet up with another man in a sleazy hotel.

Who knows.

John certainly doesn’t.

He rouses from his thoughts when he hears footsteps coming down the hall. Before he has a chance to regroup, Sherlock and Lestrade storm in, greeting Lucas before their eyes find John's.

“Well, we didn’t get much,” Lestrade says, crossing his hands in front of him in frustration. “He was taken by paramedics for overnight observation. He was in shock and his vitals were weak when they found him. We tried to talk to him but he was rather unresponsive. The detective on the case said the last thing Sholto remembers was being approached by the other man at the bar. They drank and talked. The next thing he remembers is waking and finding the man dead. He told Sherlock to stay out of this.”

John turns to look at Sherlock, trying to find his footing. Sherlock turns to look at the body instead.

“What have you got so far?” Sherlock asks Lucas.

“According to his belongings, his name is Nathan Black. 28 years old. There’s an employee badge of a local law firm. I didn’t get a chance to do a full autopsy yet but the cause of death is quite clear. His spinal cord was crushed. There aren’t any contusions or lacerations which suggest that the injuries were sustained without a struggle. In other words, someone broke his neck.”

Lestrade shakes his head slowly, scanning the corpse. “Any prints?” he asks.

“Not processed yet.”

“What about semen samples?”

“Nothing. There’s some local irritation, probably a sensitivity to latex. If intercourse occurred, they most likely used a condom.”

“So not much to work with, for now.” The DI says and looks between Sherlock and John. “Not until he’s released from observation.”

John looks at his watch, relieved. “Yeah, alright. I think we should be leaving by now anyway, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the body, confused. “What?”

“We should leave…” John says but doesn’t specify further. He isn’t sure if Sherlock would like Lestrade to know about his father. “Mycroft arranged for a car to pick us up for... You know.”

Lestrade and Sherlock stare at him as if he’s speaking in a whole other language.

“What?” John asks.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Sherlock declares. “We have a case.”

“We…? I thought he asked you to stay out of this.” 

Lestrade looked confused as well. “John, mate. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where could you be possibly off to at a time like this?”

John shakes his head in confusion. “What do you..?”

“Sholto invites you to dinner on the day of his divorce and turns up in bed with a dead man not 48 hours later. I find that a bit suspicious.”

John takes the entire sentence in slowly, breaking it down for his overwhelmed brain. 

“Wait a minute, Greg... You don’t think I have anything to do with this?” He croaks then picks up on a detail Lestrade mentioned. “What do you mean, the day of his divorce?”

“No, I know you’re not involved, as in you’re not _under suspicion_. But you are… involved. Somehow. His lawyer and ex-husband were both interviewed earlier. They left him at The Bianca a few hours prior once they were finished with the papers. They say that’s the reason he came to London in the first place. You didn’t know that?”

“No... he mentioned some errands. I didn’t ask. He just texted asking if I was available.” 

“Why did you cancel? What did you say?” Lestrade asks. “Was he upset?”

“I told him it was a family emergency. He didn’t sound upset at all.” He says and looks at Sherlock. His face is completely inscrutable.

“What family emergency?” Lestrade asks and looks at Sherlock. “Was Sherlock there when you talked?”

“No… Sherlock was out on a walk at the time.” John says, not sure how to answer Lestrade’s first question. Lestrade doesn’t give up though and looks expectantly.

“Sherlock’s father is ill. He’s in hospital.” John says and looks at the floor as Lestrade raises an eyebrow and steals a glance at Sherlock. “I came over to check on Sherlock and Mycroft was there. He was the one who told me about their father. I wasn’t comfortable leaving so I called James when Sherlock was out and cancelled.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asks and the man barely nods back, confirming the details. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to Greg’s words. Instead, he circles the dead man’s body, inspecting and asking Lucas questions. He rifles through the man’s clothing, his shoes, everything that was found on the scene and is available.

“So you cancel on him and he ends up pulling someone, they go up to the room...” Lestrade runs through the scenario in his mind, a scenario that sends a chill down John’s spine.

It is then that Sherlock finally speaks.

“He didn’t ‘ _pull’_ anyone,” Sherlock says coldly. “This man is a professional. An escort.”

John’s jaw drops, as does Lestrade’s. 

“How do you...?”

“Obvious. His clothes are expensive, far more expensive than a casual walk-in would wear in an establishment like The Bianca. He’s well-groomed, his body fully waxed. Probably preferred by the majority of his clients. His tattoo, his ring both bear the same logo, a sign of belonging to some professional circle. His wallet is brimming with various sized condoms and packets of lube. That means he’s ready for unplanned encounters, to be picked up in a bar or a restaurant. Probably had several other clients that day based on the amount of cash he was carrying. There are business cards, they’re nearly empty of text. It’s only a landline number, but no one his age uses landlines these days. I bet it’s an escort service’s landline.”

“Oh. I thought Lucas mentioned a law firm’s badge.” Lestrade says.

“It’s an intern’s badge. Doesn’t pay well, or possibly not at all. Must have been moonlighting as an escort.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Poor guy. Well, that’s something to work with, at least.”

“There’s nothing else for me to find here for you, gentlemen.” Lucas speaks suddenly. “At least not until tomorrow when the test results are back.” He says, finding the most polite way to ask them to leave him alone.

“Right.” Lestrade sighs. “Listen, Sherlock. It’s been a long day and it sounds like you have other places to be. Go and do what you need, I’ll keep my ear to the ground for the rest of the evening. I’ll call if anything comes up.”

John looks at Lestrade with thankful eyes. He’s happy for the distraction, for the excuse to pull Sherlock away from this madness so he can try and speak to him.

“Sherlock, come on. A car is waiting.” John pleads. He texted Mycroft earlier, updating him on recent developments. The driver is waiting outside Barts.

Sherlock shakes his head as he looks at the corpse, his lips a straight line. He then exchanges an apprehensive gaze with Lestrade, then turns towards the door. 

John barely manages a quiet “Bye” to Greg as he rushes to follow Sherlock.

* * *

John steps out of the building, jogging to catch up with Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” He calls after him, but the man ignores him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” He calls and grabs his arm to stop him. “What’s going on?”

“You heard Lestrade, John.” Sherlock asks coldly. “Something about the timing of your dinner is suspicious. Can’t you see that?”

”‘I do, now, but…”

“Is there anything you’re not telling us?” 

“What? Of course not.” John says, shocked.

“How long have you been in touch?” Sherlock asks. “You haven’t mentioned the dinner.”

“I was trying to. You were ignoring me.” John’s hit again by a strange mix of guilt and anger. What is he apologizing for? He did nothing wrong. He agreed to dinner with a friend. He’s allowed to do that. “He nearly died on my wedding day. The least I can do is have dinner with him, no?” He smiles but the joke lands flat and painful. “I was going to ask you to join us.”

“Why would you do that?” 

“I don’t know... I thought after everything that happened at the wedding it’ll be nice to have you there too. What with saving his life and all of that.” 

Sherlock eyes John as he speaks, as if trying to determine if he’s telling the truth.

“But then I heard about your father and it didn’t make sense to go.”

“I need to be sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me, John.” Sherlock says again and John feels like nothing but a client for a mere second. “It’s pertinent to the investigation.”

“Of course not, Sherlock. Come on.” John says, surprised by the questioning.

Sherlock nods stiffly and releases himself from John’s hold. He opens the car door and silently snakes in.

* * *

In the car Sherlock is still and rigid. His hands are clasped tightly between his knees and he stares out the window wordlessly. They ride in complete silence. The first words to leave John’s mouth are uttered at the hospital when they reach the ITU reception desk.

“Mr. William Holmes?” John inquires politely, nodding to a nurse.

A nearby doctor raises her head at the question. “Are you Dr. Watson?” She asks and John nods.

“Mr. Holmes mentioned you’re on your way.” The doctor says. John assumes she means Mycroft. “He gave his permission to brief you on his father’s condition should you be interested.”

“Yes, please.” John says and shakes the doctor’s hand. “If it’s not too much trouble. This is Sherlock Holmes, his younger son.”

Sherlock nods, his hands in his pockets. His gaze is formal and distant. The doctor nods back. 

John, Sherlock, and Dr. Williams head towards Mr. Holmes’ room. The doctor spares no detail and John listens intently while keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock at the same time.

Mr. Holmes’ condition hadn’t changed since the day he was hospitalized. He’s sedated to prevent any pain and medicated to prevent brain swelling. He's intubated and put on a respirator. The doctors have been doing daily sedation breaks but he hasn’t regained consciousness so far.

John tilts his head towards a chair to signal to Sherlock to sit down whilst he talks to the doctor. Sherlock is listening intently and probably understands much of the doctor’s briefing. He hopes to give him space in these initial few minutes to get his bearings, seeing his father in this condition for the first time.

By the time the two doctors are done Sherlock is settled in his chair, staring at the floor to his side.

“Tea?” John asks.

Sherlock looks at him wordlessly; he doesn’t care either way.

“Have you heard Dr. Williams’ explanation? Do you have any questions?” Sherlock just shakes his head slowly and readjusts in his chair. 

There are sounds of beeping devices and sighing respiration machines and the room smells of antiseptic. John knows many people dislike this sensory overload. The smell and sounds of a hospital make most visitors cringe and they feel the need to escape as quickly as possible. It’s all just so sterile, it makes even the most natural interaction with a hospitalized loved one seem forced and unnatural.

But he sees the hospital as a doctor does, knowing exactly how it all works: these are the signs of a dedicated team working hard to save a life. For him, it's all very comforting. 

For a long time, they’re both quiet and lost in thought. Sherlock alternates between sinking into his Mind Palace and looking at his father as if telepathically urging him to wake up. 

John looks at the older man, wired and tubed. He’d only met him a handful of times but he liked him immediately. Sherlock has his mother’s piercing eyes and her sense of drama but everything else about him is clearly an inheritance from his father. The shape of their faces, the voluminous hair, the cheekbones. There’s even that rare crooked smile. John’s breath hitched the first he saw that smile on William’s face. 

The older Holmes was probably taller in his younger days, but age shrunk him to the size of a likeable old man. John wonders if this is what Sherlock will look like forty or fifty years from now.

It’s staggering to think that this man knew Sherlock as a little boy; that he watched him take his first steps, taught him how to ride a bike. That he saw him blossoming from a tender little boy to a ragged teenager, fiercely intelligent and frustrated with the world around him. There’s very little to be jealous of when it comes to the Holmeses these days, but John irrationally envious of the fact that they know Sherlock in ways he never would.

How many times had he looked at Sherlock and wondered what made him build the unbreakable fort around himself? Wondered when in time would he need to travel to prevent Sherlock’s heart from hardening? 

Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, his traitorous heart tells him sometimes. After all, they’ve known each other for so long. They’ve been through so much, walked down so many lanes together. If Sherlock felt something, anything, surely he would have been brave enough to say something, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t they have found their way to each other by now?

He shakes his head to stop this philosophical brooding. He turns to Sherlock and asks softly, hoping for a truce.

“How long have you known about the dementia? You never said anything.”

Sherlock gently tilts his head as he speaks, shrugging helplessly. 

“It was inconclusive for a long time. The doctors weren’t sure and weren’t quick to make a diagnosis. I suppose after Eurus things became clearer and that’s when a doctor actually put it in writing. Mummy didn’t share much along the way.”

John nods. “Why weren’t they sure? There are standard diagnostic tools for dementia.”

“I can’t say for certain, but I think it’s because he was always so… quiet. And introverted, I suppose. He lives inside his own head.” Sherlock says and John wonders if Sherlock is aware just how similar he is to his father. “Mummy thinks he must have hidden many of the symptoms by simply not speaking or complaining. It was only when she realized he was getting lost that she couldn’t ignore the severity of it anymore.”

“He got lost?” John asked.

“He woke early one Sunday, dressed up and left their house. She found him sitting confused in the middle of a forest clearing, ten minutes away. When she asked what he was doing he told her he was on his way to work. He retired 25 years ago.”

John shudders at the thought.

“Christ.” He says, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine… When was the last time you actually talked to him? An actual conversation, you know?”

Sherlock's eyes move to the side as he tries to recall this fleeting detail. John can see when the realization hits. 

“Christmas.”

“Christmas?” John’s brows furrow. “But you didn’t... Oh.” _That_ Christmas. “What about?”

“About you.” Sherlock says. “You and Mary. He sensed something was wrong. He asked if you were alright.”

John’s smile at that is a sad thing. “He’s just as observant as the rest of you, isn’t he?”

“Probably more than all of us put together.” Sherlock responds quietly. He thinks for a long minute, his face crumpling.

“What?”

Sherlock is silent for such a long time after that, John doesn’t expect an answer to his last question.

“He _is_ more observant than all of us. He always has been. The three of us pride ourselves in being all-seeing, smarter. We notice strands of hair on a suit, the patterns of dust. Not the important things, like he does. None of us noticed him fading away. What good are observational skills if you can’t observe _that_?”

John’s sad smile straightens in a split second. His heart twitches in pain. Is this what’s been eating at Sherlock this entire time? The dementia diagnosis was marked in Mr. Holmes' files as given nearly a year ago. So is this the reason behind the change in his character? Behind his more subdued personality these days? Has he been upset over losing his father this whole time?

 _Why didn't he say anything?_ John wonders yet again, probably for the millionth time since meeting the detective. Why doesn't he ever, ever let me in?

A memory of Sherlock’s best man speech comes to John's mind. _I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy._ John remembers sitting there by Sherlock that day, hearing the words, and feeling his heart breaking in pieces over the way this man perceives himself. He remembers wondering, not for the first time, just who exactly the real Sherlock is; who’s hiding behind that cool exterior. There’s obviously someone in there, painfully aware of his inadequacies and judges himself over them. Someone who thinks of himself as an outside observer, not a participant.

“Sherlock..” John says, leaning forwards in his chair towards the other man. “Sherlock, come on. You said so yourself. He was hiding it. He’s a quiet man. I barely remember hearing him speak. There _is_ a phase during the development of dementia where patients understand that something is wrong and they hide it. It can work for a long time, especially for someone his age. People tend to dismiss things, excuse them, you know. Old age forgetfulness, stuff like that.” 

He screws his head trying to catch Sherlock’s eyes.

“And you aren’t very close, as it is. You aren’t familiar with his routines, you haven’t lived with them for years. The only person who could have been expected to notice anything is your mother, but she’s not a doctor. It’s understandable she didn’t see things for what they were.”

Sherlock stares out the window, his eyes blinking in gentle frustration.

“Mummy never sees anything.” He says in half-whisper and John's mouth hangs open in surprise. The bitter pain enveloping Sherlock’s last words leaves him speechless.

Minutes pass. Sherlock suddenly stands up. 

“Let’s go, John.” He says resolutely, sparing one last glance at the figure on the bed.

“Alright.” John says quietly. His eyes scan the various monitors and devices. 

“Goodbye.” He says to the quiet room and turns to leave.

They ride back to London in complete silence again.

John hates it. 

The driver drops John off first. John doesn’t want to leave Sherlock but the minder needs to be dismissed and Rosie needs her routine or else she won’t sleep a wink. He looks at Sherlock, waiting for any sign of anything from the man. Sherlock wordlessly stares out the window, lost in thought.

He steps out of the car without a word, exhausted and conflicted. When he walks into his house Rosie is there, shrieking with joy at the sight of him. He smiles at her but the rest of the evening is a blur. It’s only when he’s lying in his bed, trying to fall asleep, that he allows his thoughts to run freely.

He closes his eyes as he remembers Sherlock’s confession, his admission of guilt over not recognizing his father’s condition. John knows the feeling himself, knows it intimately. He won’t let Sherlock carry the guilt over something he wasn’t responsible for. He knows all about lies, about letting your family slip away, about living a life full of regrets. It’s time that they talk. Properly.


	4. James’ Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you are taking the case?” John calls over his shoulder.
> 
> “Of course. We can talk on the way there!” Sherlock calls back, his mind already moving at a hundred miles per hour.
> 
>  _No, we can’t_. John shakes his head.

John wakes the next morning from a short, fitful sleep. He takes his tea and calls the surgery, letting them know he won’t be available for the rest of the week. He just can’t, his mind is too preoccupied.

He cites a family emergency again and has no qualms about it. Sherlock _is_ his family; the man had said as much before and John feels the same, so it’s not a lie. Besides, he’d been doing double shifts for months, covering for everyone's weddings, holidays, and birthday weekends. Let someone else cover for him now.

Freeing himself from work today means he’s free for the rest of the week till Christmas comes around. They’ve made no substantial plans, only to spend Christmas Eve quietly at Baker Street. 

_James is under investigation_ , he suddenly remembers with a sigh. John had had hopes of convincing Sherlock to not get involved but he doubts Sherlock would listen. 

He sighs as he prepares Rosie for the day. As he drops her off at nursery school and texts her minder, letting her know she might be needed for the evening.

He spends his ride to Baker Street conjuring last night’s resolve to speak to Sherlock about his father, to unpack yesterday’s hospital visit. He needs to do this, for himself if not for Sherlock.

He stops by 221A to say hello to Mrs. Hudson, stalling for time. After a while, he goes up the stairs, opens the door quietly.

Sherlock is on the sofa, wide awake. Hadn’t slept a wink. _So it’s not just me_ , John thinks. He walks to the kitchen without a word, moves around automatically, making tea and toast for two. It would be his second breakfast, one he usually has here. Second breakfasts go a long way to explain his extra five pounds these days, but they are a peace offering. Those are needed quite a lot when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

He walks towards the sofa bearing food and drinks. 

“Hey. Make some room.” He says, his voice neutral.

Sherlock moves around without opening his eyes, making just enough space for him. With a sigh of relief, John sits down.

 _Not a bad start_ , he thinks. 

“Plum.” He says, holding out a jam jar. Sherlock’s favourite. The plum enthusiast grabs the jar from his hand and the gesture is so _Sherlock_ , so heartwarming, that John can’t help but beam at him. They eat in comfortable silence while John gathers his strength when Sherlock suddenly speaks.

“Thank you.” Sherlock half-whispers.

John is so surprised he stops mid-chew. 

“What for?” He asks because he honestly isn’t sure.

“For coming with me, yesterday. The hospital.”

“Of course. Of course. We can go again if you’d like. Soon.” He says and his smile is warm and honest. He thinks for another minute, then clears his throat. 

“Listen, Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s phone cuts him short.

“Wait, don’t pick that up.” John pleads. He has to say something before this day steals Sherlock away.

“It’s Lestrade.” Sherlock says and takes the call; he listens intently and glances at John from time to time. 

“Sholto’s been released from observation. They’re taking him in for questioning as we speak.” He says and rushes towards his room to get dressed.

“So you are taking the case?” John calls over his shoulder.

“Of course. We can talk on the way there!” Sherlock calls back, his mind already moving at a hundred miles per hour.

 _No, we can’t._ John shakes his head in frustration.

* * *

Things move quickly once they reach the Yard.

Lestrade briefs them as the three of them walk towards a remote room at the back of the building. John has to work hard to keep up with the two detectives.

“He’d been cleared by the doctors. The only results we got back from the lab are the fingerprints, and they’re definitely his. Only his.”

“They had sex, of course his fingerprints would be all over him.” 

“Right.” Says Lestrade. “He still claims to not remember anything from that night. His doctor reported he hadn’t slept a wink in observation and that he shows signs of extreme fatigue. I’ve only seen him for a passing moment but I agree. He looks unwell.”

“Can you blame him?” Sherlock asks.

Lestrade nods in agreement.

“You should also know that he refused the presence of a lawyer, can’t for the life of me understand why.”

Sherlock nods back as he opens the door and they walk in. John’s stomach drops when he sees James. His doctor was right; this is a man who hadn’t properly slept in a long, long time. He seems ill, ashen, affected. John notices tiny jerks in his hands despite his rigid form and an unhealthy colouring to his face. 

James raises his head quickly when he hears the door open. His eyes widen in apprehension when John and Sherlock walk in. 

James’ voice is nearly a growl when he speaks, his head almost stuck to the table. 

“I asked you to stay out of this, Mr. Holmes.”

“I was asked to join this investigation, Major.” Sherlock replies as he moves to sit right in front of the tired man. His movements are fluid and confident, a striking contrast to James’ fragile body language.

Lestrade stands squarely behind Sherlock, his arms crossed.

Feeling confined and uncomfortable by the entire situation, John plants himself solidly in a far corner of the room, becoming one with the wall. His arms are crossed as well, his entire stance that of a man who wishes he could anywhere but there.

“It’s been a while.” Sherlock says, his voice mocking.

“I have nothing to say to you.” 

“That’s rather rude, considering last we saw each other John and I were rather busy saving your life.” Sherlock snarls back.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.” James says defiantly. “Look where it got me.”

“Where _did_ it get you, Major? My understanding is that you’ve not been very cooperative.” Sherlock says. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“It’s _Mr_ . _Mr._ Sholto. I’m no longer a Major, you know that. And I’m sure you have access to the case files if you’re that curious.”

“The case files do not explain your memory loss, your refusal to have a lawyer present.” Sherlock says, his voice cold. “You’ve offered no explanation or alibi, no reason why a prostitute ended up dead in bed with you.”

James lifts his head and stares at Sherlock, shocked.

“You didn’t know he was a prostitute, did you?” Sherlock asked, suddenly intrigued. “Major, I honestly don’t--”

“It’s _Mr._!” James cries out in sudden rage.

“ _I don’t care!_ ” Sherlock yells in return, his voice booming and bouncing off the walls of the small room. The effect is so startling both John and Lestrade straighten up.

“I don’t _care_ who you’re sleeping with. I don’t care whether you’re guilty or innocent. I agreed to take this case for one single reason; because John Watson and his daughter are under _my_ protection. I don’t know what your plans were for him that evening, but you will not lay a finger on either of them. If you do, no one will be able to save you this time.”

James’ jaw drops. He blinks at Sherlock for a long minute, processing his words, his threat. He looks at John, disbelieving.

“Daughter?” James asks so quietly that John barely catches it. He nods in response.

“I had no... Send my regards to Mary.”

The room falls deadly silent. John looks away again, sticks closer to the wall. James can’t help but look at Lestrade and Sherlock with a stumped stare.

“Mary passed a year and a half ago.” Lestrade says quietly.

“Oh my god…” James says and looks away too, his body slumped. “My apologies, John. I’m so sorry. I didn’t have any _plans_ for John, how can you even...”

Lestrade clears his throat, apparently sensing they need a fresh start. 

“Why don’t we start over, eh? Why were you in London in the first place?”

James sighs. He speaks through his teeth because this obviously isn’t the first time he’d been asked.

“I came to London to sign divorce papers.” He says.

“Why come all the way to London? Your lawyer mentioned she visited you the day before and you refused to sign them.”

“I wanted to sign them in Alexander’s presence. He didn’t even bother to tell me he asked for them to be drafted.” James explains.

“Why did he petition for divorce?” Lestrade asks.

James shrugs. “You should ask him that.”

“Yeah, I’ve been through a divorce.” Lestrade says, unperturbed. “There’s no way you didn’t have an inkling.” 

James exhales. 

“I’m a difficult man, detective. He knew that when he married me. He’d known that for a long time, long before he... I have… difficulties. Anger. Traumas. Some periods are better, some are worse.”

“Has it been worse recently?” Lestrade asks and James nods, closing his eyes. “But the divorce caught you by surprise.”

“Yes. I admit I haven’t been myself lately. I suppose I didn’t realize how bad things had become.” James says.

“Had there been infidelity?” Lestrade asks.

“Not on my end.” James says. “I’ve had my suspicions about Alexander. He promised me it was a misunderstanding. I agreed to let it be. He was my husband and I promised him I’ll make an effort to trust him, as hard as it’s always been for me. I’m a man of my word.”

“Why did you ask to meet with John?” Sherlock asks coldly, impatient with James’ speech.

“It wasn’t like… I’m not…” James says and looks between Sherlock and Lestrade. “I wanted his advice. His… medical advice.”

“What sort of advice?” Sherlock asks. “I’m sure a man like yourself can afford the best health care this country has to offer.”

“I’ve been having difficulties, as I said… I’ve been taking some medication but I haven’t been feeling like myself recently. For months, actually. I’ve always been a paranoid man. Well, at least since..” He says and loses his train of thought, then picks up on it.

“I’ve been feeling more... And Alexander told me I’m exaggerating but then he sent the divorce papers and I felt so lost. Like I couldn’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore. I needed someone whose judgment I can trust. Who knows the feeling... I...”

“What sort of medication?” Sherlock asks.

“Antidepressants. Anti-anxiety.” 

“That’s fairly standard.”

“That’s what my therapist said.” James says and John looks in surprise. James used to be adamant against emotional therapy. He once threw a snide comment John’s way about it. “Well, our therapist. He’s a highly regarded psychiatrist. I’d see him for myself sometimes, and sometimes for couples counselling with Alexander. He doesn’t usually do that but he made an exception for us.”

“Why didn’t you raise this with your therapist?” Lestrade asked. “He’s a professional, he should know what to do if you’ve not been feeling well.”

“I did tell him. He said we should wait a bit more, let them take effect.” James says.

“Did you experience any memory loss or lost time since you started taking this medication?”

James shakes his head.

“No, but I have.. I haven’t been taking them consistently. Recently I’ve had heart palpitations and that scared me. I’ve been taking lower doses. I know that’s not advisable but my therapist had been out of the country and I couldn't reach him. That’s what I wanted to talk to John about.”

“Alright. Tell me about Nathan.” Sherlock says simply, but James just stares blankly back.

“The escort. The man they found dead in your room.” Sherlock clarifies and James swallows.

“Oh. He said his name was Benjamin. I didn’t know he was a... He just sat down next to me. We started talking and…”

“How did you pay him? Cash, credit?” Sherlock’s voice is cold and hard.

“I... didn’t.”

“Not as far as you remember.” Sherlock corrects him.

James shakes his head.

“How much did you have to drink? You were out for a long time.” Lestrade says.

“I only had tonic water. Not supposed to mix alcohol with my medication. I don’t remember what he ordered. Maybe whisky? He just came over, asked to sit next to me so he could escape a woman that was bothering him. I… I’m not sure how much he had to drink before that.”

“Did you have a room ready at The Bianca?” Lestrade asks.

“No!” James exclaims. “I don’t… You have to understand, I despise London. I feel exposed here. I suppose I’m rather used to my seclusion by now. The plan was to have dinner with John then go back home that evening.” 

“How did you pay for the room?” Sherlock asks. James shakes his head. “Who suggested getting a room? Was it you or Nathan?”

“I don’t remember any of that. The last thing I remember is talking to him at the bar. About a woman. Some woman in a purple dress who wouldn’t stop talking to him.”

Sherlock considers James for a long minute. John wonders what he sees. 

“Purple dress?” He asks and Lestrade raises his eyebrows, confused. “You seem to remember that detail rather well.”

“I suppose. He pointed at her, laughed about her.”

“Do you remember anything else about her?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Have you been receiving any threats again recently?”

“No. No. It’s been very quiet since..” 

“I’ll need your therapist's details, as well as your lawyer’s, the one who visited you on Sunday. When was the last time you spoke to Alexander?”

“Monday afternoon, when we signed the papers.”

“He was the one who reported you missing.” 

“Oh?” James says.

“Does that surprise you?”

“No.. I suppose someone from the household must have wondered where I’d gone. It’s rare for me to spend a night away from the house.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?” Lestrade asks.

James shakes his head, resigned.

“Why do you refuse the presence of a lawyer?” Lestrade tries again.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d swear that James just whimpered. The man stares at the ceiling in frustration. It’s a rare nervous tick John remembers suddenly from their days in Afghanistan; an unguarded slip in James’ normally frozen exterior. 

“Because. What’s the point? My husband left me. My reputation is tarnished, whatever’s left of it. You probably think I’m guilty anyway. In all honesty, detective, I haven’t been myself recently. I just don’t… know.”

“Yeah. And that’s exactly why you need a lawyer, Mr. Sholto.” Lestrade says, reproaching him. 

“Alright, we’re done here?” Lestrade asks the room and the three of them head to leave.

“John.” James calls and John turns to look at him with a heavy heart, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock who’s holding the door for him. “I didn’t... It wasn’t like that. I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of all of this. You saved my life, I’d never harm you or your family.”

“Yeah. You’re _not like that,_ are you.” John snipes unkindly as he leaves the room. 

This time it’s John who needs a moment of solitude, a chance to regroup. Sherlock’s harsh, booming words to James still ring in his ears. _‘John Watson and his daughter are under my protection.’_ Putting John first, as always. John saw Sherlock’s silence, his intensity since this case started, and read it as jealousy. But it was fear, it was protectiveness. Wasn’t it?

* * *

They’re sitting in Lestrade’s office minutes later. Sherlock is buzzing and hovering around in excitement over the plethora of new information. Files, test labs have been coming in all morning. Additional officers join them as they discuss the current situation.

“I’d like to see Sholto’s belongings. More specifically, I need medication samples.” Sherlock says as he skims through the police reports. Lestrade nods and asks that access to the evidence room is arranged.

“Right.” Lestrade says. 

“As well as the recordings of the interviews conducted with his ex-husband and lawyer. Get me their divorce papers while you’re at it.”

Lestrade nods and speaks again.

“So according to the autopsy report, James’ fingertips were indeed the only ones found on Nathan’s body. No other physical signs of distress or struggle. The death is indeed due to a broken neck.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock says quietly.

“What?”

“That’s weird if we do consider he’d had other clients that day, based on the amount of cash he was carrying.”

Lestrade’s brows furrow in agreement. “He could have showered.” Lestrade suggested. “Or maybe it was a.. Very specific service that he provided if you catch my drift.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. He clearly catches the drift. The entire room does.

“As for toxins…” Lestrade clears his throat and concentrates as he reads on. “Yeah, Flunitrazepam. That would explain Nathan’s lack of struggle.”

John moves uncomfortably in his seat upon hearing the results of the toxin screen. Flunitrazepam. _Rape drug_. Could James really resort to something like that?

“What about the toxin report for James?” Sherlock asks.

Lestrade looks around and when he can’t find it, he sends an officer to get it.

“Why would he drug Nathan? The sex was guaranteed given the transaction.” Sherlock asks as he reads the more detailed autopsy report. 

“The angle of Nathan’s twisted neck.” Sherlock continues, his eyes fixed on a scan.

“What about it?” John asks.

”For the angle of his neck to end the way it did he would have to be left-handed, and use quite a bit of force when doing it.”

John thinks for a moment when suddenly the realization hits him. “His left side was incapacitated in Afghanistan. He can barely move it.” He says. “He had to learn how to use his right after the injury.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. “I suspected that yesterday when we were at the mortuary but now the scans make it quite clear.”

John raises his eyes as he picks up on Sherlock’s train of thought. “You think he’s innocent.” 

“I think something doesn’t add up.” Sherlock clarifies. 

“The credit card report does include a charge for an escort service, as well as a hotel room at The Bianca.” Lestrade calls over as he reads on.

Sherlock looks over. 

“Both are online transactions. Makes sense in the case of an escort service perhaps, not the hotel. He was right there, why would he pay online and not at the reception?”

The atmosphere in the room changes as the implications of all this new evidence becomes clear. 

“Yeah.” Lestrade agrees. “Something doesn’t add up here.”

* * *

John and Sherlock spend some time in the evidence room, browsing through James’ belongings as they were found in the hotel room. There isn’t much. James seems to be telling the truth about not planning to stay overnight in London.

Sherlock rifles through James’ laptop bag and finds his medicine. There are a few containers, clearly labelled with what John recognizes as run-of-the-mill anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. He opens the containers and throws a few pills from each of them in labelled evidence bags before his phone pings. He reads the text message quickly and pockets his phone without a word, together with evidence bags full of pills.

John says nothing but he’d been getting the same texts as Sherlock. William Holmes’ condition is deteriorating and the doctors are suggesting the family visits whenever possible. John holds back on raising the issue; a police station is not the time for what is likely to be a lively debate with Sherlock on the topic.

Lestrade knocks on the door.

“A judge extended Sholto’s arrest to the maximum 96 hours.” Lestarde says. “That was before all the new evidence came in, but with the way things are developing I don’t think it’s a bad idea to keep him here.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. 

“For his own safety, if not anything else. If he’s unstable as he mentioned, better in then out.”

“And I’ve got a little surprise for you.” Lestrade says and John and Sherlock lift their heads in surprise.

“Alexander Calvert is here. James’ ex-husband.” 

“What’s he doing here?”

“He heard about the arrest. He wanted to see if James was alright.” Sherlock’s right brow lifts at this interesting development. 

“Yeah, I know.” Lestrade says in agreement and the three of them leave the evidence room to meet Alexander.


	5. Catherine’s Daughter-In-Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why did you divorce James?” Sherlock asks bluntly, never one for beating around the bush.
> 
> “That’s personal.” Alexander says. “You’re not police, I don’t have to answer that.”

Alexander Calvert is French. His accent isn’t thick, his English fluent. He’d probably been living in the UK for many years. He’s around John’s age; a fit and bulky man, around Lestrade’s height and build. He has brown hair, brown eyes, a short scruffy beard. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd for any reason whatsoever.

Sherlock and John step into the interrogation room along with Lestrade. Alexander raises his eyes expectantly, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of them.

“Oh.” He says, disappointed. “I thought I could speak to James.”

“No.” Lestrade clears his throat. “We can’t do that at this point in the investigation.”

“Oh.” Alexander’s face falls at Lestrade’s words. He gathers himself and turns to Sherlock. 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” Alexander asks. He turns to look at John. “And you must be John.”

They both nod. John is tempted to fall into the trappings of niceties when Sherlock speaks.

“Why are you here?” He asks matter-of-factly.

“I.. I wanted to see how James is doing.” Alexander says, confused.

“Why?” 

“Because I heard about the arrest.” Alexander frowns and looks between John and Lestrade as if trying to see if he’s being the weird one.

“My understanding is that you are now divorced.” 

“So? Am I not allowed to check on him? To make sure he’s alright?”

“You’re the one who reported him missing.” Sherlock says rather than asks.

“Er.. Yes.” 

“How did you know he was missing? You haven’t lived in that house for a while.”

“Miri called me.” Alexander says. “Our… his. His housekeeper. He didn’t come home and she couldn’t reach him. She tried me instead. I’m not sure she’s aware of the divorce yet.”

“Why _did_ you divorce James?” Sherlock asks bluntly, never one for beating around the bush.

“That’s personal.” Alexander says. “You’re not police, I don’t have to answer that.”

“I am.” Lestrade declares. “And I suggest that you do.”

“Am I under some sort of suspicion?” 

“Not yet. Now let me ask you again.” Sherlock is impatient. “Why did you divorce James Sholto?”

“Things became difficult recently.” Alexander looks away. ”He became paranoid, erratic. I feared for my safety.”

“How long have you known James?” Lestrade asks.

“Five years. I was his physical therapist, that’s how we met. He'd had a few other physical therapists before and he never liked any of them but he took a liking to me. I’d come over a few times a week. He was all alone in this big mansion of his. He was... lonely. He barely even wanted me there, he hates physical therapy. I worried about him, you know. I thought he was a wonderful man. We became friends and over time he started smiling. Telling jokes. He used to say I saved him from himself.”

“And when did you become a couple?” Sherlock asks.

“After your wedding.” Alexander says and looks at John. “I was so upset over his injury. I realized he could have died. I told him how I felt and we…”

“So you’ve known him for a long time then.” Sherlock cuts Alexander’s musings. “Before and after that injury. The paranoia, the trauma, you’d known all about it by the time you married him. What changed?”

“He was doing well for a long time. We were so happy when we got married, it was everything I ever wanted. But then... It just became... Worse. Something happened, I still don’t know what. It was gradual, too. I didn't just happen one day. I thought that maybe he regretted the marriage. Maybe he resented me for something. Then one day I found him in the sitting room, arguing with his own reflection in the mirror. For a long time, too. He was immersed in it. He threatened me not to get close to him when I tried to help.”

John closes his eyes, his heart filled with sadness at the thought. He had no idea James was ever that bad. 

“What did you do then?”

“I called his therapist. Our therapist. He said to leave the house and let him handle it.” 

“Did he?” Sherlock asks.

“What?”

“Your therapist. Did he handle it?”

“Yes. He went over there and did what he did. He adjusted his medication, I think.”

Sherlock eyes Alexander for a long minute.

“James mentioned he suspected you’ve been unfaithful.” 

“I.. Never!” Alexander is stunned. “There was a... Misunderstanding. He overreacted.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock says with a small knowing smile. “What about?”

“A conversation between me and Gabriel. That he mistook for something that it wasn’t. I swear.”

“Who’s Gabriel?” Lestrade asks.

“Their therapist.” Sherlock says winningly. 

John and Lestrade both turn their heads toward Alexander.

“No, you don’t understand. Gabriel is an old friend from med school. We both studied psychotherapy but I never graduated. I realized it was too hard for me emotionally, so I chose physical therapy instead. You’re still connected to people, helping them, but you don’t have to carry the psychological load. But we’ve kept in touch. He’s an excellent therapist and for a while, James was doing really well.”

“You were lovers.” Sherlock says and Alexander’s eyes widen in shock. His face turns red and he blinks nervously for a brief second.

“Very briefly. It wasn’t serious. I never…”

“That’s not very ethical, is it?” Sherlock asks. “Sending your current partner to pour his heart out in front of your past lover. You said couples counselling too, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes. Just a couple of times, before the wedding. To iron a few things out before tying the knot.”

“And James never knew you two used to be a couple?” John finally speaks, shocked by the revelation.

“We weren’t _really_ a couple, it was a... thing. You know. The sort of thing you have when you’re in school.”

“So you lied to him.” John says.

“I didn’t lie.” Alexander shakes his head in protest. “I didn’t tell him because… he needed professional help and I honestly thought Gabriel was the best person for the job. I still do. He’s top in his field.”

“A lie by omission is still a lie.” John says, repulsed by Alexander’s condescension towards James’ condition. “Which field is that?”

“PTSD. Service trauma. You served with him, you know.”

“Yes.” John sniffs in anger, his dangerous smile appearing. “I also know you called him paranoid and erratic while conspiring behind his back with an ex. We had a saying in Afghanistan, you know. _You’re only paranoid if you’re wrong_. He wasn’t, was he now?”

Alexander stares at John, shocked.

“What was the argument James so badly misread about?” Lestrade asks and if Alexander seemed caught out by the questions so far, he now looks as if he realizes he just dug his own grave.

“Gabriel... He confessed he still has feelings for me.” Alexander says and swallows. “I told him he was crazy. That I’m with James and I absolutely do not feel the same. James walked in on us.”

Sherlock eyes Alexander for a long moment before turning to Lestrade.

"I got what I needed." He says and leaves the room.

“Mr. Calvert, I suggest that you find yourself a good lawyer. I also forbid you from you reaching out to and contacting Gabriel in any way, shape, or form until further notice. You _will_ be arrested if I find that you did. Is that clear?”

Alexander nods quietly as they leave the room.

* * *

After interviewing Alexander, John and Sherlock are due for another evidence brief. They stay to discuss Gabriel Walker, James’ therapist. Gabriel’s clinic is outside the city and Lestrade insists on joining them, which means they need to coordinate a next day’s visit as well as make sure the remaining team knows how to continue their work while Lestrade is away.

On their way back from the Yard Sherlock suddenly breaks the silence.

“Is he how you imagined him?” He asks.

John is tired and frankly, confused. “What? Who?”

“Alexander.”

“I didn’t imagine him at all.” John says, perplexed. “I didn’t even know he existed two days ago.”

Sherlock gives John a hard, long look. 

“What?” He asks and can tell Sherlock has a question to ask. He braces for it.

He needn’t have. That was that. Sherlock didn’t say another word after that.

* * *

They’re in the kitchen, just gone 9 PM. Rosie is asleep at Mrs. Hudson’s, who insisted on not waking her.

Sherlock is examining James’ medicine. He’s submerged in the images his microscope is producing, taking long notes in his notebook.

Both their phones ping simultaneously, as they had done all day. Another update from Mycroft about Sherlock’s father’s condition. Considering Mycroft keeps texting, John can only assume that means Sherlock had been ignoring them.

He looks at Sherlock and makes up his mind. He gets up and grabs a whisky bottle and two tumblers; he’s going to need liquid courage for this conversation.

He sits in a chair right on the other side of the kitchen table, staring, waiting to catch Sherlock’s attention. Sherlock ignores him but John Watson is the father of a two-year-old. He’s brave in the face of petulance.

“Sherlock.” John says and the man grimaces.

“Sherlock, come on. Leave it for a minute. Look at me.” He asks.

“John, the case.”

“I don’t care about the case, Sherlock.” John says, his voice measured. “I want to talk to you.”

Sherlock sighs and looks away from the microscope. John offers a tumbler but Sherlock shakes his head.

John moves around in his chair, gathering his courage. He finds it when their knees touch, the sensation warm and grounding.

“Mum killed herself.” John says, apropos of nothing. “Have you deduced that?” He asks and looks at Sherlock, hoping to convey that the question isn’t asked in animosity. 

Sherlock is caught off guard but nods nonetheless.

“I initially deduced death due to unnatural causes but wasn’t sure. There had been mixed signals. I figured it was more complicated than that.”

“You can say that.” John chuckles bitterly. “The official report is that she killed herself. The truth is.. I don’t really know what happened, to this day.” 

"I see."

“Dad left when I was 12. Left her for… somebody else. Never saw him again, ever. She was heartbroken. Then she married my stepfather. I don't think she ever really loved him. Probably... felt like we needed a man in our lives, you know?”

Sherlock nods in understanding.

“Everything seemed normal at the time, I suppose. He would go to work, she was a homemaker. Never thought one way or another about it until he started drinking a few years into the marriage. He was a vicious drunk. Not physically, never that I saw. But he would say things..”

John clears his throat and braces himself.

“He would… laugh at us. Laugh at her for marrying a poofter, is what he’d say. That her husband left her for a man. At us for having a queer dad. We heard rumours about it, Harry and I, but Mum never talked about that. But that’s all we saw from him, from our stepfather. A loudmouth drunk, every once in a while. Then one day... her car was found off-road. Her body laid half in the car, half out of it. It looked like she poisoned herself with exhaust fumes and the police assumed she panicked, opened the door to leave but it was too late. My stepdad told anyone who would listen that he wasn’t surprised. That she’d been behaving bizarrely, had gone on and on about our dad leaving her and wanting him back. I don’t remember her doing any of that. She seemed fine, you know? Normal. But two of her aunts killed themselves and he knew that, said that it must run in the family.”

John stops as memories flood him. His stepfather tarnishing his quiet, lovely mother’s reputation to neighbours offering condolences. 

He takes another long sip.

“So it was an open and shut case as far as the police were concerned. But my uncle.. her brother.” He stops to clarify. “He had none of that. He was sure my stepfather killed her. Staged it to look like a suicide. He had friends in high places, I suppose you can say, and he started finding traces of things. Hospital records, stories from friends. And it became... it became quite clear that she kept things from us. Horrible, horrible things, Sherlock. Since the day she married our stepfather. She rotated between hospitals for treatments. Said she’d fallen down the stairs, hit her head on the door. You know the stories. There were reports of… suspected sexual abuse. Never confirmed but the doctors in the hospital took note. But she denied it all. She said they were misunderstandings. I think he may have raped her, Sherlock. She...” He stops when his throat closes.

This isn’t the first time he thinks about it, but he never talked to anyone but Harry about this.

It’s a horrible secret they’ve both carried together for years. It’s what made them fall apart.

Sherlock looks at him intently, his face twisting in sympathetic pain. 

“I’m so sorry, John.”

John nods, then tilts his head in thought as he continues.

“People knew my uncle was sniffing around. He received a number of anonymous letters claiming my stepfather was blackmailing her, threatening to expose things about our father. My uncle went to the police with all these... all this evidence. But there was no physical evidence tying him to the crime scene. It was all circumstantial, they said. She never pressed any charges against him, never said anything about violence to anyone. Harry and I... we were horrified. We lived with them that whole time. We had no idea any of this was happening. There were never any bruises, we never heard her calling for help. Didn’t see her cry. I swear, Sherlock. I never saw anything. She was going through all of these horrible things... And we…” 

He stops again, choking on his words. Because this was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it?

“We let her down. I still don’t understand how she... I saw her every day but never really saw her, did I? That’s when Harry started to drink. She went from drinking with her mates once a week to a full drunk after we learned about the sexual abuse. She kept saying that she was a terrible daughter, that she had let her down. That as a woman she should have seen the signs. I don’t know what her being a woman has anything to do with that. Any man with eyes in his head should be able to notice these things too. She fooled us completely. I’ll never understand how.” 

He raises his eyes to look at Sherlock.

“I understand _why_. She was our mother. She wanted to protect us. I know now just how strong the need to shield your child is. But how.. _How_ she managed to keep that from us, to hide all that agony and suffering...”

John is suddenly exhausted, flayed open as he is after sharing his innermost secrets in the middle of the kitchen in 221B. 

“I still think about her every day, Sherlock.” He says, shaking his head. “How lonely she must have felt. We were both young, you know, I don’t know if I would have been able to save her... but I would have liked to have a chance. To kick him out of our house, to call him out. I was big by then. I’d have liked to see him try to get at me.”

“I’m sure he would have regretted the moment he laid his hands on her.” Sherlock says and they exchange a sad smile, then fall quiet for a long minute. 

“Who was Catherine? Your mother’s name is Jean.” Sherlock asks softly as if worried if he’s intruding. John raises his brow in surprise.

 _He remembers_ , he thinks. _He heard the conversations_.

At the time John wished Sherlock would pull his eyes away from his damn phone, take an active part in Rosie’s first days on Earth. John wanted to name the baby Catherine. Mary flat out refused.

“Catherine was her mother-in-law. Dad’s Mum. She died shortly before Dad left. She was wonderful. Everything a child can wish for in a Gran, really. She and Mum.. they were very close. They loved each other a lot. In fact, Gran was the one who introduced Mum and Dad.”

John smiles as a warm memory comes to mind.

“When I was young... around seven I think. I heard Mum talking to a friend. She said she'd like to have another baby, a daughter. Call her Catherine after Gran.”

Sherlock looks at him with a confident, challenging side glance.

“You should have insisted.” He says.

“Maybe.” John shrugs. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? She always got what she wanted.”

John stops talking for a long minute, then tilts his head knowingly.

“Sherlock, what were you going to ask me in the car?” 

Sherlock looks down, surprised by John’s perception of his intention on their ride back here. 

When Sherlock shakes his head, refusing to answer, John exhales in frustration and lets it go for now.

“Sometimes the people we love fly right under our radars.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock says, still staring at the floor.

“Because they love us, because they want to spare us. I think that’s what your dad did. He hid his pain in order to protect you and he did an excellent job of it. But the choice to not tell you, to protect you… that was his choice. You had no control over it. I won’t let you take the blame for it. You won’t blame me for not seeing through my mom’s cover.”

Sherlock takes a big, suffering sigh.

“You’ve been flying under my radar, too, Sherlock. Since the day we met. You know you have.” John says, his voice low.

This is the part of the conversation he fears the most.

”I think you’re a lot like your dad in that sense, and I’ve learned to come to terms with that I suppose. You never needed anyone but yourself, I know that. But you’re… different. You’ve been different so long. You’re suffering.”

John squirms in his chair as Sherlock closes his eyes tightly as if trying to disappear, remove himself from the conversation.

“John...” 

“I can see it, I always could. But all you’d ever let me do is just… watch. Watch you fall apart again and again. It’s like watching a car accident in a horrible loop, not being able to stop it from happening. Do you have any idea how terrible that feels?”

“I wish you’d trust me, Sherlock.” John sighs.“Really trust me. With your… pain. With your...”

“Of course I trust you, John.” Sherlock says, resigned. 

“No.” John shakes his head in disagreement. “You trust me to run along you to catch a criminal, yes. You trust me to treat your wounds, yes. You’ve trusted me enough to live with me, a great honour in and of itself.” John half-smiles bitterly. “But you never trusted me enough to tell me you’re in trouble, or that you’re hurt or that you have to leave. Why, Sherlock. Why is that?” 

Sherlock only swallows loudly, lost for words.

“Sometimes... And saying this. It’s hard for me, Sherlock.” John confesses. “Sometimes I want to grab you and shake you until you tell me, honestly for once, why I’m not good enough. Why I was _never_ good enough.”

“This isn’t about you, John.” Sherlock says, but there’s no malice in his voice.

“You see, that’s very confusing to me, Sherlock. Because sometimes nothing’s ever about me, is it? It’s like I’m transparent. But other times it’s only about me. It has so much to do with me I don’t even know what to do about it. Look at you. Drowning yourself in this god-awful case when your father is lying in hospital. Why didn’t you listen when James asked you to let this go, to focus on your father instead?”

“Do you really need more regrets, Sherlock? Don’t we have enough for a lifetime between the two of us?”

“I’m solving this case for you, John.” Sherlock says weakly.

“Oh please, Sherlock. I know you pretty well by now. Well enough to know you’re doing it under some misguided notion that I’m emotionally invested in this. Well, I’m not.”

Sherlock spears him with a sceptical look.

“I’m _not_ , Sherlock.” John says and waits. “Just... ask me. Ask me what you wanted to ask in the car. I want you to. I promise I’ll be honest.”

Sherlock looks at him this time, really looks at him. He still can’t seem to find his strength.

“ _Ask me._ ” John goads him.

Sherlock clears his throat. He’s vulnerable, scratching at his earlobe in discomfort. 

“Were you and James ever...” He speaks slowly, slowly, but stops mid-sentence. 

“No, we were never.” John shakes his head. “He wasn’t interested.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows again, this time in apparent surprise. _Why so surprised, Sherlock?_ He’s not brave enough to say out loud. _You've been rejecting me since the day I met you._

“But _you_ were…?” Sherlock begins but apparently unable to finish his sentences these days.

“Yeah.” John says simply and nods for a long time. “Yeah, I was. He was the first… and he knew. And he was… harsh about it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock whispers.

“It was… off-putting. For a long time.” He bites his lips as he considers his next words. “Mary knew, I think.”

“I know.”

“Oh?” John asks.

“She said as much.” Sherlock explains and oh, how John wishes he could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. 

They stare at each other for a long time, considering their next words.

“I don’t know what the dinner was about, or what it was supposed to be.” John confesses. “It was weird that he asked, that he came to London in the first place, but I didn’t get the sense anything sinister was going on.’ 

“Do you think he’s guilty?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s a murderer, to be honest. But what do I know? We’ve seen enough in our work to know better.”

He clears his throat nervously before he continues.

“But it doesn’t matter, Sherlock. This case doesn’t matter." John stops for effect. " _He_ doesn’t matter... He’s.. he’s water under the bridge.”

John waits for his words to land, then juts his chin out when he speaks again.

“Water under the bridge, Sherlock. Yeah?” He asks.

Sherlock nods slowly, his face inscrutable. His lips move silently before he speaks next as if he’s practising the words.

John holds his breath in expectation.

“You’re a brave man, John Watson.” He says quietly.

John scoffs at that. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

“Braver than I’ll ever be.” Sherlock adds.

“Would that it were true.” John says and they exchange a bitter-sweet smile, contemplating for a minute before John speaks again. 

"That's why I don't want any trouble over this case, then, Sherlock." He stresses his point again. "Do you see?"

Sherlock nods and John sighs with relief.

“We should go to the hospital tomorrow. Dr. Williams wants to speak to you, to all of you.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

“Probably not.” John opts for honesty.

“I’d still like to speak to James’ therapist.” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, OK.” John sighs in acceptance. They took the case, they might as well finish it. “But promise me you’ll make arrangements for leaving for the hospital from there.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock faux-grumbles, his lack of respect for authority preventing him from taking an order.

“I’d like to stay here tonight if that’s OK.” John suggests. “Rosie’s fast asleep.”

Sherlock swallows nervously.

“You’re always welcome to stay, you know that.” 

“Alright. Thanks.” John says with a small smile.

When he gets up his hand moves of its own volition, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock doesn’t protest John’s hand pats his shoulder for a moment longer.

He puts the tumblers in the sink and looks at Sherlock’s long, familiar form from behind. He’s no longer radiating distance. John wishes for some more contact - another look, another touch. But Sherlock was receptive and honest and he’s thankful for that. He doesn’t want to push him further.

He gathers his strength and leaves the kitchen, calling “Good night.” over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, the chapter count just changed from 10 to 12. I guess I'm bad at math :)


	6. Untethered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would that appointment be with Mr. James Sholto?”   
> Gabriel doesn’t answer.  
> “Because he’s not coming.” Sherlock says.  
> “Oh?” Gabriel says. “Why not?”  
> “He’s being investigated at the moment. Under suspicion of murder.” Lestrade says.  
> “I see,” Gabriel says, his tone even. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an important note about John and Mycroft's argument in this chapter; in order to not spoil it for you, I'm leaving it at the end of chapter notes.
> 
> As always, I'm not a medical professional and it's possible I got a few things wrong discussing Mr. Holmes' condition. Apologies if that's the case.

They leave for Gabriel Walker’s clinic very early in the morning in two separate cars; John and Sherlock in a rental, Lestrade in his detective car. The ride is long but uneventful, except for a stop for food John insists on. Sherlock hadn’t eaten properly in days and John nearly force-feeds him until he’s satisfied Sherlock consumed enough calories to not faint by the end of the day.

When they arrive Lestrade jogs over to them, his phone in his hand.

“I just yelled at Anderson for a good minute.” He tells them.

“Good.” Sherlock says, clearly not requiring further explanation.

“He finally found James’ tox screen report from when he was admitted for observation. Guess what.” He says and shows them a document on his phone screen.

“Halothane.” John and Sherlock say simultaneously as they read the results, taking the information in.

“Knockout drug.” Lestade says and they both nod.

“It’s an inhalation anesthetic.” John says. “How.. why would?...”

“It’s the type they use in home burglaries when residents are in their houses.” Lestrade explains.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Sherlock with a scary smile.

“So someone.. drugged James?” John asks, used to Sherlock inappropriate responses by now.

“Looks like it.” Lestrade says. 

“How? Wouldn’t you find traces of someone else in the room?”

“Home burglars usually spray it in the air conditioning system.”

“Oh my god.” John says. So Sherlock is right. Something doesn’t end up, indeed.

“Is this the clinic?” Lestrade asks and Sherlock nods.

“Let’s go.” He says.

The clinic is housed in a renovated one-storey building in Surrey. The design is modern and sleek, with plenty of glass and steel. It’s impressive, if somewhat cool and distant. Ella’s clinic is much more welcoming than this one. 

The area looks just as posh, quiet with very little car traffic.

They walk in and a young female assistant welcomes them, the front desk so large she is almost completely hidden behind it. 

“How may I help you?” She asks, her interest piquing by what is clearly the most exciting thing that happened in this area in a while.

“We need to speak to Gabriel Walker please.” Lestrade shows his badge.

She nods and leaves her station, knocking softly on one of the doors before she enters. When she steps back out a man is following behind her, distracted by a pile of papers.

“Yes?” He asks with a sigh, looking between the three of them. “What’s this about?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Can we do this in about an hour? I have an appointment starting in a minute.”

Sherlock, who was clearly scanning the assistant's computer screen, turns to look at Gabriel.

“Would that appointment be with Mr. James Sholto?” 

Gabriel doesn’t answer.

“Because he’s not coming.” Sherlock says.

“Oh?” Gabriel says. “Why not?”

“He’s being investigated at the moment. Under suspicion of murder.” Lestrade says.

“I see,” Gabriel says, his tone even. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

John raises his brow at that.

“Why don’t we step inside so you can tell us more about that.” Lestrade says and nods towards Gabriel’s room.

* * *

“I’ve been treating James Sholto for nearly a year and a half. I’m the first professional he reached out to since his accident in Afghanistan. I also helped Alex and James agree on a few things they were unsure about prior to their marriage; their marriage agreement and such. I can’t go into further details than that, I’m sure you understand.”

“What did you mean when you said you’re not surprised by his arrest?” Lestrade asks.

“It means that it fits well with the man I’ve been treating.” Gabriel says. “He’s a deeply troubled, disturbed man. He was doing well for a long time but things took a turn for the worst recently. He’d been less cooperative in our sessions. Treating him became a real professional challenge for me.”

The three of them are silent for a moment at Gabriel’s blatant words. John’s surprised by this description; though Alexander mentioned things were difficult in the past few months, he certainly didn’t describe a deeply disturbed man.

“Alexander Calvert mentioned he’s the one who referred James to your clinic.” John says.

“Yes.” Gabriel nods. “Alex and I have known each other for a long time and he trusts me. My expertise is in war-zone PTSD recovery. I’m quite respected in my field.”

“I’m sure you are.” Sherlock says and exhales impatiently, bored of Gabriel’s pretentiousness. “Though as respected as you are, you never bothered to disclose your past relationship with Alexander.”

Gabriel flinches for a nanosecond but stares back coldly. The hard stare transports John to a life-changing conversation in 221B, watching Mary’s piercing eyes losing their warmth as Sherlock unfolded her secrets in front of John.

“He was well aware of our long acquaintance when he started coming here. We’d met briefly before in joint social circles.”

“Right.” Sherlock says. “But you didn’t disclose the romantic relationship.”

“It was barely a relationship.” Gabriel straightens in his chair. 

“Nor did you disclose the fact that you more recently confessed your love to Alexander, either.”

Gabriel clears his throat. “Alright. I’ll admit I may have crossed a professional line there.” He says and John scoffs at the brazen understatement. “Though to be fair, Alex wasn’t coming for couples counselling by that point.”

“But James was still coming for his private sessions.” Lestrade says.

“What does all of this have to do with James’ investigation?” Gabriel asks.

“Have you ever thought your feelings towards Alexander were reason enough for him to become troubled, to be less cooperative in therapy?” John asks.

“That still wouldn’t explain a suspicion of murder, would it?” Gabriel asks, his tone inscrutable.

“You’ve been dispensing James’ medicine.” Sherlock says, staring at a big cabinet at the back of the room. There’s an electronic padlock on it - it looks very sophisticated.

Sherlock stands and walks towards it, scanning its contents.

“Yes.” Gabriel replies. “I’m a licensed psychotherapist. James is technically a hospital outpatient and as such I’m allowed to prescribe him certain medicine personally. It gives me a lot of freedom in adjusting doses in cases of quick and severe changes in patients' conditions.”

“What did you prescribe for him?” John asks.

“I’m really not at liberty to say…” Gabriel says. Lestrade gives sends him a sharp, threatening glance. “Antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. All very standard. Only in support of the more substantial healing process in our therapy sessions.”

“Who else has access to this cabinet?” Sherlock asks.

“Only I do, of course.”

“What about the other therapists in this clinic?”

Gabriel’s eyes flinch very very slightly again, then he shakes his head. “Just me.”

“How often did you meet with James?” Lestrade asks.

“Twice a week. Mondays and Fridays.”

“What was James’ mood in your meeting this Monday?” Lestrade asks, knowing full well there wasn’t one.

“We didn’t have one. I was in Hong Kong. I only just landed last night. I’m still a bit jet-lagged, to be perfectly honest.”

“What were you doing in Hong Kong?” 

“I attended a friend’s wedding.” Gabriel says.

"How was it?" Sherlock asks mockingly.

"Lovely." Gabriel smiles.

“Well, it was nice talking to you, it was most helpful.” Sherlock says abruptly and heads for the door, leaving three very confused men behind him.

John and Lestrade rush to catch up with him but wait till they leave the building before they speak.

“It’s him.” Sherlock says. 

“Gabriel? He killed Nathan Black?” John asks. 

“He hired someone.” Lestrade says, following Sherlock’s train of thought. “Is Alexander involved too?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“If Alexander is involved, it’s only in the sense that he’s Gabriel’s love interest. I analyzed the pills I took from James’ bag; the containers claimed to contain antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication but the actual compounds I found when I analyzed the pills didn’t match. Yes, I think he hired someone. And he probably left for Hong Kong for a while in an attempt to build a solid alibi for himself.”

John is about to speak when they’re interrupted. Gabriel’s assistant is jogging towards them, looking hesitantly over her shoulder.

“Ummm.” She starts but isn’t sure what to say. “I’m not sure what’s going on but I heard you mention James Sholto’s name.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade nods.

“I don’t know if this has anything to do with that but I.. I thought I should tell you.”

“What’s that?” John asks.

“Someone’s been coming over to the clinic recently. I don’t know who he is. He’s… strange. Creepy. Gabriel said he’s an associate, but I don’t know what he means by that.”

Sherlock nods and looks at the clinic. “Business isn’t very booming, is it?” He asks.

“Yeah. How did you know?” She nods her head, surprised. 

“The clinic has rooms for four different therapists but only Gabriel’s is furnished and occupied. He’s the only one accepting patients here right now. There’s an expensive espresso machine but it’s broken and dusty. There are plastic water bottles next to it with plastic cups - a distinguished establishment like this will only offer that as a temporary solution until the espresso machine is fixed. But it hadn’t worked in months, never fixed or replaced since it broke down. I also caught a glimpse of Gabriel’s agenda on your screen. James is only one of two patients scheduled for the day.”

“Yeah.” The assistant nods, impressed. “It’s been that way for months. To be honest, I’ll be starting a new job very soon, I figured I’m about to be fired soon anyway so what have I got to lose, you know?”

“Have you seen Alexander Calvert in the clinic recently?” Lestrade asks.

“Alex?” She shakes her. “No, actually. Haven’t seen him in a while. Is Mr. Sholto alright? He’s a nice man.”

“He will be.” John says, faking a smile. “Thank you, that was very helpful.” 

They thank her again as she turns to leave.

“So what’s next?” John asks.

“Lestrade, have a surveillance team follow Alexander today, look out especially or any attempts to be in touch with Gabriel. Be ready to apprehend him later. Say it’s for further questioning. Prepare for Sholto’s release but don’t let him go just yet.”

“What are you thinking?” John asks.

“There’s still something… someone missing here. Someone’s fulfilling Gabriel’s orders. That’s why Gabriel went to Hong Kong, he’s creating an alibi for himself, though he doesn’t really need one, does he? We can wait for Gabriel to confess but it’ll take a while and Sholto will have to be released by then. We need to figure out a way to lure that person out of the woodwork.”

“You sure?” Lestrade asks. “You think we’re close?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Sherlock huffs and speaks further as he turns to walk towards the rental car. "You'll have Nathan Black's murderer in a holding cell by tonight."

Lestrade waits till Sherlock is out of earshot.

“You heading for the hospital again?” Lestrade asks and John nods.

“Is he going to be alright?” Lestrade asks.

“I don’t know.” John shakes his head, sad. 

Lestrade only nods as they go their separate ways.

* * *

The ride from Gabriel’s clinic to the hospital is a long one, but it’s not uncomfortable, for once. Sherlock is jumpy, sensing that the resolution of the case is near. John understands; he’s excited about the prospect of solving this case as well, but he reads between the lines of Mycroft’s texts. The conversation that awaits the Holmeses at the hospital is a difficult one.

Dr. Williams had asked that the family gather to meet with her at 11:30 am, but Sherlock and John are the only ones in William’s room when they arrive. The man in the bed looks solemn and peaceful. They’ve barely settled in when there’s a knock on the door.

“Mr Holmes.” She says. “Your mother and brother are here. Will you join us?”

Sherlock stands up to leave and John follows behind him. He sees Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft, and a man who bears a familial resemblance standing by the door.

“Dr. Watson, are you joining us too?” Dr. Williams asks, hesitant.

“Yes.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, sharply. The doctor nods.

John clears his throat and nods back.

 _That’s why he stays._

He remembers that day vividly; sitting in his chair, realizing Mycroft doesn’t want to speak in his presence and feeling like an outcast. Remembers his shock at Sherlock’s words, the small smile that escaped him at Sherlock’s defiant tone when he said them.

John spent the majority of his life feeling untethered, unattached. Knowing that a man like Sherlock Holmes considered him his family brought a new sense of purpose to his days back then. It gives him the same sense of purpose now.

He follows Sherlock closely behind as they leave. On the way to Dr. Williams' room, he learns that the man is Sherlock’s maternal uncle.

They scatter across the room when they finally enter, broken into groups. John thinks it reflects this family’s sad state of affairs. Mrs. Holmes and her brother sit next to each other on one end, Mycroft stands ramrod straight in another. Sherlock sits down in the last remaining chair at the centre of the room. John, protective and nervous, stands right behind him with his arms crossed. He could be mistaken for Sherlock’s bodyguard. He isn’t bothered by that.

“I’m sorry we have to speak under these circumstances, but I’m sure you’re aware that William’s condition has been deteriorating over the last few days.” She says and everyone in the room nods solemnly.

“Mr. Holmes has very clear living will. He’d instructed that once his medical state reaches certain criteria he should only be provided palliative care, and does not wish for his life to be prolonged. I’m afraid we’re not far from reaching the criteria that were set.” Dr. Williams says and scans the room.

John swallows when the reality of the situation hits him. He knows what the doctor is doing; this is a very roundabout way to encourage the family to accept that William really is on his deathbed. It’s doctor speech and John does that himself sometimes without even noticing. It’s still somewhat jarring to be on the receiving end of it.

“Legally and ethically, of course, we’re committed to gathering the family and making sure they understand the situation. A hospital committee had reviewed his will. Given his written wishes, his current condition, and his dementia diagnosis I sadly have to say that I think it would be best to respect his wishes. Even if in some way his body makes a physical recovery, his mind will not. We will act according to his will unless one of you feels the need to reject it or examine it on any grounds. If you do not and during the next few days William’s body stops functioning, we will not act to revive him. We will only make sure he is not suffering from any pain and that he can breathe as long as his body does so of its own volition.”

She lets the words sink and waits for a response.

“At this point, I recommend that you make arrangements for transferring William to a hospice. I can recommend a few - very good ones. Mr. Holmes,” She says and turns to look at Mycroft. ”You mentioned you prefer that he stays in hospital but I’m here to represent William’s interests. A hospice is a more soothing environment, both for patients and their families. The medical staff there are just as well trained as a hospital’s staff. So I’d urge you to reconsider.”

Mycroft simply nods solemnly.

“Do you have any questions?” The doctor asks.

“Is he suffering now?” Mrs. Holmes asks.

“No. He’s not been in pain since he was admitted.” Dr. Williams assures her. 

“How long…” Sherlock’s uncle asks.

“There’s no way of knowing. It can be a matter of hours, days, maybe even a week or so. It’s very hard to predict.”

John’s heart flutters when Sherlock speaks softly. 

“Is he.. Aware? Can he hear us?”

“Probably not, not in the sense you think of as awareness. It’s possible he hears you but we can’t be sure if he understands or registers the meaning of words. It’s hard to say.” The doctor explains. “But if you have something to say to him, you should. I speak to him when I’m there with him. I always speak to my patients, no matter what condition they’re in.”

She stops and waits for another question, then continues when none arrive.

“This is just a formality, but I’ll need to ask you to sign these papers. They confirm that we had this conversation and that I explained the situation to the best of your understanding.” She passes copies to Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft, and Sherlock.

Sherlock looks up to John for the first time since entering the room. John's breath catches. He looks as if he’s asking John’s permission to sign the paper; his eyes are lacking their ever-present confidence.

John tips over to look at the paper Sherlock was asked to sign. When he’s done reading it he nods back to the other man. He whispers for Sherlock’s ears only and squeezes his shoulder. 

“If that were my father I’d sign this. It’s the right thing to do.” 

The doubt disappears from Sherlock’s eyes. He signs the papers and puts the pen down, staring at the desk.

Mrs. Holmes is weeping quietly beside them. Her brother is gently comforting her. 

“There, there.” He says. “It’s good that you’re respecting his wishes. It’s what he would have wanted.” 

Sherlock’s uncle looks at Mycroft, then at Sherlock. 

“Chin up, Will.” He says in a tone that sends a chill down John’s spine for some reason. “It’s not your fault.”

Sherlock blinks just blinks. He looks to the ground without a word.

John, however. John’s blood boils in his veins because if he didn’t know any better he would have sworn that Sherlock’s uncle just blamed him for his father’s condition.

“What is that supposed to mean?” John asks, his notorious temper flaring quickly. “Of course it’s not Sherlock’s fault.”

“That’s what I said, boy.” The uncle says, affronted.

“No. It sounds like you said it _is_ his fault.” John insists.

“John.” Sherlock says defeatedly.

“No, Sherlock. It’s not right.” John says loudly. “Is that how things work in this family? Mycroft’s the perfect firstborn, Eurus is the black sheep and you’re the family’s punching bag?”

Mycroft’s eyes turn predatory in a split second. 

“Well. You’d know better than anybody about using my brother as a punching bag wouldn’t you, Dr. Watson?”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock calls, his voice threatening.

“ _Really?_ ” John says, seeing red. “Really, Mycroft? You’re one to talk! I wasn’t the one who threw him into Moriarty’s lion's den more times than I can remember! How many times have you asked me to look after him after you fucked up?”

Mycroft winces at the accusation and the language but doesn’t say a word.

“John-” Sherlock starts.

“No, Sherlock. He’s the one who hid the truth about Eurus from you. He’s the one who’s been lying to all of you for so long, and this is somehow your fault?” John asks and turns to Mycroft again. “You toss him around like it's a game. I’m the one left to pick up the pieces after you leave. How dare you!”

“Dr. Watson, Please.” Dr. Williams says. “Calm down or I will be obliged to call security.”

“No need. I’m out of here.” John turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

John is standing by their rental car in the car park, rattled and embarrassed. He just yelled at a grieving, distraught family. Sherlock’s family, no less. They’re terrible but they're still related to Sherlock and John is nothing but an outsider. He had no right.

 _Idiot._ He berates himself. _When will you ever learn?_

He’s been regulating his breath over the last few minutes, kicking at the floor in anger while attempting to relax. He needs to go back in there and make sure Sherlock is alright. He needs to apologize to Sherlock’s uncle. To his elderly mother. _For yelling at her_ , he remembers again in horror. _Oh fuck._

_Not apologizing to fucking Mycroft, though._ He thinks. _That arse had it coming._

His eyes closed, he practices his apology when he hears footsteps approaching. Sherlock is marching quickly towards him and John takes a long breath and prepares for battle.

“Sherlock-” He starts but he’s cut off by Sherlock’s long-form as he passes him by in a rush.

“Not now, John.” He says and John realizes the man isn’t angry. He’s excited. “Get in the car, quickly.”

“What’s going on?”

“Gabriel’s assistant was just found dead.”

“What?!”

“Yes. He’s escalating. He must have seen her talking to us and panicked.” Sherlock explains as he begins to drive. “This case turned out to be far more exciting than I ever thought it would be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Mycroft and John.  
> The rest of this story will not delve into the consequences of John hitting Sherlock in TLD. Mostly because I dealt with that in my other stories (Detours as well as Any Other Universe) and honestly, my heart just can't take any more of that in the context of this story. So as you read this - choose whatever works for you: either the beating in TLD happened but John and Sherlock put it to rest behind them, or it didn't and Mycroft is referring to John hitting Sherlock in TEH.


	7. Monkey Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gabriel just rang Alexander back. He told him he’s held up and won’t be able to come so he’s sending an associate instead.” 
> 
> “Don’t fall for that, Lestrade.” Sherlock says. “I’m sure Gabriel is on his way to London already.”

By the time they reached London’s suburbs, Sherlock had spent the majority of the ride with Lestrade on the phone. He’s instructing him on details of a sting operation that will, hopefully, reveal the truth about Nathan Black’s death and James’ recent predicaments.

The Yard is preparing the location and Lestrade will be briefing Alexander. He’d been asked to contact Gabriel and tell him he needs his help; ask him to meet him behind the hotel Alexander has been staying in.

They’re thirty minutes away from their destination when Lestrade calls again.

“Gabriel just rang Alexander back. He told him he’s held up and won’t be able to come so he’s sending an associate instead.” 

“Don’t fall for that, Lestrade.” Sherlock says. “I’m sure Gabriel is on his way to London already.”

“Even better, that’ll make our lives that much easier. Everything is set up, we’re all ready to go. But listen, Sherlock, we’ll have enough men and women here. No need to jump straight into the fire, yeah?” 

“I never _need_ to…” Sherlock says petulantly but stops when John sends a threatening look his way.

“We’re almost there.” John says. “See you soon.”

“Right. See you.” Lestrade says and hangs up.

John moves uncomfortably in the passenger seat. Now that the plans are in motion he needs a few minutes to regroup. The day has been so unexpected and contradictory; moving from yelling at Sherlock’s family at the hospital to a full-on sting operation, guns and all.

He’d been somewhat detached from the case thus far, participating only as an observer, but the thought that some plot was hatched yet again to harm James is distressing. John has no idea what James is like as a husband or even as a friend, but he knew him well as a superior officer. The accident that took James’ soldiers’ lives was not his fault. He knows James well enough to know the man wishes every day he’d died that day with them.

James was a fine commander and didn’t deserve the hate he drew afterwards. The attempt on his life on John’s wedding day was horrible enough. If James is innocent in Nathan Black’s murder, and it looks like he is, he doesn’t deserve everything else he’s been going through since.

They ride in silence; Sherlock is strategizing and calculating whatever is about to happen, and John is all around worried about James, about Alexander, and most of all about Sherlock.

He's is hard to control at the best of times. These days, with his father ill, his behaviour could turn downright unexpected. John only wishes for a quick resolution for this case, so they can focus on William's last days. 

“Sherlock…” He says, wanting to beg him to avoid any danger. 

“I know, John.” Sherlock says quietly with a side glance. 

That’s as much of a promise as John is going to get. He has no other option but to accept it.

Somewhere along the way, Sherlock’s posture changes. He seems lost in thought suddenly, tense. John assumes that now that all plans are in order Sherlock’s thoughts must be back to his father.

“I’m sorry about my outburst earlier, Sherlock. That was inappropriate of me, considering...”

“No, John. It was… good.” Sherlock says hesitantly. He squirms in his seat. “Thank you.”

John sighs in relief.

“I don’t know where your uncle gets off blaming you like that. You didn’t know about Eurus for decades.” 

John turns to look at Sherlock. The other man’s jaw is tight as if holding back his words.

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock. You take the blame so easily. We have enough going on as it is, no need to borrow trouble. Tell me you understand that.”

“There were other things in our lives, John.” Sherlock finally speaks. “Difficult things, besides losing Eurus. I wasn’t an easy child.”

John doesn’t follow so he turns to look at him. Sherlock turns briefly sending a meaningful look his way.

Suddenly Sherlock's long and convoluted biography comes to John’s mind; all the things William faced as his father. Seeing Sherlock turn from a gentle, thriving child to a traumatized, hurting boy after Eurus and Victor. Teenage years couldn’t have been simple with Sherlock, he thinks. Then the drugs, rehab, life on the street. All that before John had even met him. Then his fall, knowing Sherlock’s somewhere on the run. Mary’s bullet, his drug relapse. Even the simple knowledge that Sherlock chases criminals every day should be terrifying enough for a parent in their right mind.

John can't imagine going through a tenth of that with Rosie and coming out intact.

Still, bad things happen. Most of what Sherlock experienced, most of his growing pains, were not his fault. His unique brain is both a gift and a curse, John knows that very well by now, and he's not the first to battle addiction.

Some things were his own doing, that's true. That's life. No one is perfect and being family means it's your job to help them survive, carry the heavy load - not blame them for their own faults.

“That’s neither here nor there, Sherlock. Dementia takes years to develop, and there’s no way to prove what caused it in the first place. The PTSD diagnosis attached to the dementia one is just a guess, there’s no proof that’s what actually caused it. Given his age, he could have developed it even if he lived the perfect life.”

“I know that, John.” Sherlock says, sounding unexpectedly anxious.

“Sherlock, there’s no finger-pointing at you in this, do you understand? Especially not when it’s coming from your mother, your brother, even your uncle. Their actions are what tore your family apart. Your mother went through the same experiences as your Dad did and she’s fine. Suffering traumas doesn’t necessarily lead to dementia. He could have gotten it anyway, do you hear me?”

Sherlock’s body is now so tense John has to look at the road to make sure the car isn’t veering away from its lane.

“What, Sherlock?” He asks but Sherlock doesn’t reply. “What is it?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks.

“What is?”

“What if it wasn’t the trauma?” Sherlock finally asks. “What if it’s hereditary?”

John’s eyes widen in shock.

Dementia is a long, painful process. It strips the brain away layer by layer. First goes the everyday capabilities, then you lose more and more of who you used to be as the brain wilts away. You lose the ability to recognize your loved ones, to speak, to walk.

Sometimes dementia is caused by trauma; by pain so unbearable that the person experiencing it wants nothing but to forget it. Dementia makes them forget, but it takes everything else with it.

But what if it is hereditary, John repeats Sherlock’s question. What if Sherlock’s beautiful, one of a kind brain is hit with the same terrible disease as his father? Didn’t he wonder how much Sherlock is like his father not two days ago during a hospital visit? 

He gapes at Sherlock, shaken by the mere idea of losing him like that sometimes in an unknown future.

“Sherlock…” he opens his mouth to speak. _You can get tested_ , he wants to say. _Even if it is hereditary it doesn’t promise you’ll get it too, this is not a death sentence_ , he considers instead. _There’s medicine to slow it down_ , he thinks.

Sherlock looks at him and John sees. He sees that Sherlock knows exactly what John wants to say. He knows that there’s absolutely nothing either of them can offer that will provide him with any comfort.

Sherlock shakes his head, defeated. 

They spend the rest of the ride silent, unable to look at each other in fear of saying anything else.

* * *

“All right Alexander. Nod if you can hear me?” Lestrade speaks to the headpiece from their hiding place.

John sees Alexander from a distance, tense and worried but nodding his head in response.

“Remember our briefing? We have all eyes on you. I know you’re worried but we have you covered from all angles. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

They’re in a huge car park located less than a minute from The Sawyer, the hotel Alexander had been staying since leaving James’ house. It’s dark and John has to narrow his eyes to read Alexander’s facial expression. 

Alexander wasn’t aware of any associates Gabriel may have, Lestrade told them earlier. He had no inkling about the progress of the investigation and told Lestrade that the associate Gabriel is sending is probably another psychotherapist.

“All right, a car arriving. Pay attention, everyone.” Lestrade instructs his team.

The car is black and nondescript. A tall man parks behind a corner, hidden from Alexander’s eyes. John’s body tenses when he sees a second person in the passenger seat. 

The driver steps slowly and assuredly toward Alexander. The man is clad in black; a black jumper, black trousers, black boots. His stance is intimidating. If he’s worried or suspicious at all, he doesn’t seem like it one bit. 

Upon seeing him, Alexander’s shoulders draw up in fear. He steps back as if trying to disappear.

“Who are you?” Alexander asks.

“I’m Gabriel’s associate.” The man says in a sharp American accent, his voice cool and apathetic. “You can go. I’ll take care of this.”

“Take care of what?”

“Your ex-husband. You said he locked himself somewhere?” The man asks and Alexander nods. “I’m here to help. He won’t bother you anymore.”

“I…”

“Is he in there?” The man asks and points carelessly towards the shed. Alexander nods again. “Go. Go, now.”

Alexander nods weakly.

“Walk away, Alexander. Slowly and safely.” Lestrade whispers to the headpiece. “Your part is done, it’s time to leave.”

Alexander is frozen in place and can’t seem to move. The man turns to look at him.

“Trust me, son, you don’t want to stay here for this.”

Shocked, Alexander hesitantly steps away, not turning his back on the man.

When he’s about to turn the corner a shot is fired and John and Sherlock jump in surprise. John feels Sherlock’s body tensing.

Alexander yelps in fear and ducks his head down as he steps backwards, though he’s still unable to look away. John hears his quiet sobs in his own headpiece.

John narrows his eyes and notices that the man had shot the door to the shed open.

The man opens the door and steps inside. They lose sight and sound of him for a short minute before he suddenly opens the door with a bang, scanning the area, looking for Alexander.

John’s instincts demand that he intervenes. Alexander is hysterical and the mystery man obviously picked up on their ruse. His body is just as tense and coiled as Sherlock’s but he knows there's plenty of backup around. This is what the Yard is here for.

The man starts running towards Alexander, aiming his gun at him. 

Then, everything happens entirely too quickly. 

A shot is heard and the man in the black clothes drops to the ground; Alexander cries in fear; the second man in the car steps out and John sees it’s Gabriel, rushing towards Alexander; and John suddenly realizes Sherlock’s heading straight towards the scene. He never even noticed him leaving his side.

“Sherlock!” He cries and gets up but Lestrade holds him back.

“What… No! Let me go. Sherlock!” John calls and tries to escape Lestrade’s hold.

Gabriel moves quickly towards the dead man’s gun and aims it squarely at Sherlock’s head.

“Shit! No!” John calls and tries to break away again but Lestrade won’t let him go.

“We have twenty people on them, don’t be stupid!” Lestrade orders him.

“But..!”

Alexander moves swiftly and stands in front of Sherlock, as if ready to take a bullet in his stead. Sherlock stands frozen with his hands up.

“What have you done, Gabriel?” Alexander's cry travels through John’s earpiece.

“Alex, move away from him. I’ll explain everything.” Gabriel says.

“No!” Alexander cries. “Put the gun down Gabriel, please!”

Gabriel’s eyes switch quickly between Sherlock and Alexander and he moves towards them, trying to grab Alexander.

“Alex, come here.” Gabriel says, the gun still pointed at Sherlock. 

The whole thing feels like an out of body experience; like a slow-motion video, the words odd and indistinguishable.

John’s head is dizzy and his mouth is dry. His breaths are shallow and heavy and he tastes bile.

“He’s not going anywhere and neither are you.” Sherlock says flatly as groups of police officers move slowly towards them from various hideouts, dozens of guns aimed at Gabriel. 

John’s breath catches when Gabriel shakes the gun in panic and indecision.

His mind demands that he closes his eyes. He’d seen a lifeless Sherlock dead on the floor too many times and he won’t survive seeing it again. 

John jumps violently when another shot is heard. He opens his eyes to see the gun flies upwards as Gabriel falls down on the floor. One of the officers shot Gabriel in his leg to incapacitate him and he cries in pain.

The world moves at normal speed again and John finally releases himself from Lestrade’s hold.

As John runs, he sees Sherlock move swiftly to grab the gun and drag a weeping Alexander away. He wordlessly follows Sherlock and Alexander around, sticking as physically close to Sherlock as possible.

Alexander is swept away to be examined by paramedics. John grabs Sherlock by his coat, barely able to stand straight as his panic recedes. His eyes are full of fear and anger when he finally gets a good look at Sherlock.

“You promised,” John says quietly. “Sherlock, you...”

John shakes his head in frustration. He’s not even sure what to say when he catches Sherlock staring at a distant spot. When he turns to look he sees James Sholto heading their way. 

James scans the scene with disbelieving eyes. He’s pale and tired. His steps are heavy as if trying to buy as much time as possible before learning the truth about everything that transpired here tonight.

When he reaches them he steals a pained glance at Alexander who’s still being fussed over by paramedics despite not suffering any actual injuries.

“What happened here?” James asks, resigned.

“Nathan Black’s murder was an attempt to frame you.” Sherlock begins. “Gabriel and Alexander used to be an item shortly in their school days. Gabriel still had feelings for Alexander when your relationship began and he agreed to treat you in order to gain access to your lives. Gabriel was the one who encouraged you to discuss the terms of your marriage agreement with him present, didn’t he?”

James nods.

“He’s in deep financial problems. That information was incredibly easy to obtain. As was your marriage agreement, your lawyer was luckily very cooperative. Gabriel knew that your wish was that you’d want to donate the majority of your money to charity should you die. He also knew the agreement leaves Alexander with a more significant amount if you commit suicide or become incapacitated due to a mental breakdown.”

James’ face twists as Sherlock speaks. He can clearly see where the story is heading now.

“Gabriel saw a chance to kill two birds with one stone. He’s been replacing your medication with an unholy mix of anabolic steroids and amphetamines. He’s been in full control of your mental faculties for months. Sometimes you’d be doing better, sometimes you got worse- all due to the medication he dispensed. More recently he induced your erratic behaviour, causing Alexander to leave and divorce you. He then hired this…” Sherlock says and points at the dead man “...man to stage a murder scene at The Bianca, thus rendering you mentally unstable. He was very sloppy at it, by the way. This man was clearly not a professional, not one that I would hire-”

“Sherlock!” John cuts him off with his patented Not Good infliction.

Sherlock clears his throat. 

“Since framing you in a murder didn’t work, we had Alexander call Gabriel today and tell him you locked yourself in that shed, threatening to hurt yourself. The plan was for the hired gun to grab you and stage a suicide. I won’t be surprised if we find a fake suicide letter in his pocket. But the shed was empty and he ran outside panicked. He realized it was a setup.”

James stares at Sherlock as he speaks, his eyes round with horror.

“For what it’s worth, Alexander was unaware of any of this. He knew about Gabriel’s feelings - you walked in on a conversation about that - but he rejected him.”

Sherlock stops talking and John turns to look at James. The man's eyes shoot daggers at a horrified Alexander.

“All of.. This? For what, money? Because... you couldn't be bothered to tell me the truth? You were supposed to be...” James says and his lips quiver. 

“I had no idea, James.” Alexander begs, tears in his eyes. “I… I had no idea. I swear. I’m so sorry.”

James lowers his eyes to the floor. 

“I should have known... I should've never trusted you.” He takes a big breath and raises his eyes to look at Alexander again. “I don’t want to ever see you again.”

James closes his eyes in defeat, his shoulders slumped as he lets out a small whimper. It’s such a juxtaposition to his usually military-standard straight form, John thinks sadly. A short moment later James turns and looks hesitantly between John and Sherlock.

He looks humiliated, broken, defeated. The great Major, unflinching in the face of war, death, and loneliness looks like he had just taken the final and most definite blow.

It’s heartbreaking.

“I…” He begins saying but he can’t seem to find any words. John can’t blame him.

James just shakes his head, tears forming in his eyes, and turns to walk away wordlessly.

* * *

Early morning creeps in slowly, spreading rays of light throughout John’s room. Dust particles float through the sunbeams, moving slowly and captivating his tired mind.

The flat is silent but for the soft breathing sounds coming through the baby monitor. She’s a bit old for that - she’s been sleeping full nights for a long time now - but the flat's walls are thick and he doesn’t always hear her when she calls for him.

But it’s not just that, is it? When Rosie’s cheerful voice isn’t heard in this flat, it is a cold and lonely place. Full of ghosts; one specific ghost in particular. Rosie’s breathing sounds travelling through the monitor help him feel like he’s not alone here even when she’s asleep. 

He himself hadn’t slept a wink last night. That should go a long way to explain his broody thoughts.

His normally troubled mind kept him up, more troubled than ever after the previous days. His thoughts swung all night from James, hurt and betrayed yet again, to Sherlock jumping into danger and from there to Alexander and Gabriel.

He gets up and heads for the kitchen, his tea-making ritual automatic. He looks at Edward’s house through the window. He wonders if Edward ever looks at John's house through his kitchen window, ruminating about his own life.

By the time the tea is ready, he finds two unread texts on his phone.

**“On my way to the hospital. Mycroft and Mummy wish to discuss hospice arrangements. -SH”**

John sighs in relief, recognizing Sherlock’s kindness in going without him. He knows John would feel awkward joining him after yesterday’s debacle.

 **“Lunch?”** John writes back, hoping his gratitude is clear despite his nonchalant response.

John opens the other text that awaits him. This one is from James.

**“I’m leaving London this afternoon. I’d like to thank you and Sherlock before I do. Can we meet? I can come over to Regent’s Park.”**

“ **Of course, see you there.** ” He writes back.

He continues to text with the two men for a minute or two, coordinating lunch and a meetup with James. He’s then distracted by noises coming from Rosie’s room as she wakes up and calls for him.

She smiles when she sees him. 

He loves her so much. It’s so good to put a smile on someone’s face.

This past week had been difficult and he barely had a chance to have any quality time with her. He decides to forego nursery for the day. Christmas is already here; he’d lost count of the days due to the case. He has shopping to do; some food, some gifts. A good distraction, a way to dwell happier things following his sleepless night.

He showers her with kisses, inhaling her sweet morning smell. It’s a small reprieve in his otherwise melancholic morning.

* * *

Two-year-olds are some of the most dictatorial creatures humanity has ever known. It sounds exaggerated, dramatic even, but he knows that for a fact. He’s a doctor. He’d had the misfortune of meeting a few of them on their worst days.

His daughter is not an average two year old. She's the product of an angry, grumpy soldier and the notoriously incomparable ( _and deadly_ ) Mary Watson. Rosie is essentially an angel-haired, cuddly monster on _her_ worst days.

Sherlock, Rosie, and John are walking through Regent’s Park towards their meeting point with James. 

John is being actively ostracized, ordered to walk behind them by his daughter as she holds on to Sherlock like a limpet. It’s not his fault, really. She’s the one who threw her monkey plushie out the car’s window in a fit of rage. It was impossible to stop and pick it up during high traffic in central London.

She cried and wailed all the way to Baker Street. Once they were there she made a beeline to an unsuspecting Sherlock as if her life depended on it. 

Sherlock, a drama-queen unphased by her theatrics, balanced her on his hip. With eyes full of mirth, he listened as she described the horrors of (what will henceforth be known as) The Monkey Incident. She did her best to include as much detail she’s capable of with her limited vocabulary ( _“Daddy said no monkey!”_ ).

Sherlock listened as intently as he’d listen to a client describing a promising case. She continued to wail and whine until he finally spoke, calm and serious.

“That’s enough, Watson. Mr. Monkey had some very important monkey business to tend to.” He said and her eyes widened in awe. “I’m sure he’ll come back as soon as he becomes available again.”

Mystified by his interminable logic, Rosie simply nodded in agreement and that was that.

Sort of. She still resents John for… well, for not being Sherlock, he supposes. 

He looks ahead at Sherlock’s back as he’s holding Rosie. Her small face peeks every once in a while as she holds on tightly to his neck. She throws a vengeful look his way over Sherlock’s shoulder, as if proud of herself for having exclusivity over Sherlock’s attention and goodwill. 

_She has my eyes_ , he thinks, _but that attitude is pure Mary_. 

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He’s doing neither. His mood hadn’t improved, and in fact, got worse as the day progressed. His mind was occupied by so many things over the night but during the day it kept going back to the dizzying moment Gabriel aimed a gun at Sherlock’s head last night. He’d spent the day trying to gather holiday cheer but simply couldn’t in the face of such a memory.

He’s mad at Sherlock, who so easily disregarded everything they talked about. John thought he spoke so clearly and Sherlock promised. He promised.

He bumps into Sherlock's back suddenly, lost in thought. He looks up and realizes they reached their meeting point. He blinks to shake his thoughts away and notices James standing at a distance.

 _Ever the soldier, still punctual._ He thinks as he looks at him. The Monkey Incident rather hindered John’s punctuality.

Sherlock sits on a nearby bench with Rosie in his lap. They nod to each other in silent understanding and John walks towards James alone.

“Thank you for coming.” James says, nervous and red-eyed. If John’s night was terrible, he can’t even begin to imagine how James’ went.

“Of course.” John says, his smile warm and honest. “How’ve you been?”

James sends a sad, crooked smile in response to the pleasantries.

“Have you spoken to Alexander?” 

“No.” James shakes his head. “I have nothing else to say. He’s going back to France as we speak. It’s over.”

And John’s heart pangs, it truly does. Because at the end of the day this man was a man he loved and adored and admired for so long. He was his greatest desire in such a significant time in his life. James truly never deserved everything his misfortune brought him. He deserved a break and he thought he found it in Alexander. Life can be so unfair, so much, for some people.

“I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry he betrayed your trust like that. You’re a good man.”

James lowers his eyes, skeptical.

“You are. I know you blame yourself but…” John clears his throat. “Mary and I… things were bad before she died. I felt the same as you do right now. I’m not innocent, not at all. You and I... I think we’re both rather... damaged. But that doesn’t mean we deserve...” He trails off.

“Thank you, John. That’s very kind of you. And I’m sorry about Mary. I never really thanked you properly. I was planning to, in that dinner we were supposed to have. I want you to know that even on my worst day, I knew I could trust your judgment.”

John nods, his heart heavy as James continues.

“And I don’t deserve your kind words. I don’t deserve any of this. Not considering the way I… I owe you an apology.”

John swallows and clears his throat. 

“Yeah. Thank you...” He says and looks away. He repeats the words he told Sherlock. “It’s, uh… water under the bridge.”

James nods, relieved. He steals a glance at Sherlock, Rosie babbling jovially in his ear. He looks back at John with a knowing glance. 

“He’s a good man.” James says and John’s throat catches because James knows. James, the man John used to think of as his first and greatest love, knows he’s no longer it. Of course he knows. Everyone knows.

Except for Sherlock, it would seem.

“Yeah, he is.” John says with a pained smile. “A very oblivious, good man.”

James tilts his head and shoots him a challenging stare. “You can do better than that. Where’s your bravery, Watson?”

John chuckles in confusion, wonders how he got here. How James Sholto is telling him to be brave in the face of another man. The universe truly works in mysterious ways.

“I’d like to thank him. Would he be alright with that?” James asks.

“Of course.” John says and they walk slowly towards the bench. Sherlock stands up and sends a small, polite smile.

“Is this the famous Rosamund?” James asks and Rosie hides her face in Sherlock’s coat. _She looks so innocent when she does that_ , John thinks.

“Rosie, this is my friend James.” He says. “Can you say hello?”

She smiles shyly and waves, still glued to Sherlock’s neck.

“I didn’t ask your father’s permission to do this, but it’s Christmas so I don’t think he’ll mind.” James says and pulls out a small tablet of chocolate, offering it to Rosie. She grabs it with enthusiasm.

“Watson.” Sherlock reproaches her.

“Thank you.” She says.

“You’re welcome. I like chocolate too.” James says and turns to look at Sherlock. “I need to thank you again, Mr. Holmes. You saved me far too many times.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Sholto. James.” Sherlock says, hiding behind his usual cool exterior. 

“I should pay for everything you did for me. I insist.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary.” 

James looks at John who shakes his head in agreement with Sherlock.

“How about a donation in your names?” James asks. “A Christmas donation, for a charity of your choice. You can’t refuse that.”

Sherlock nods at that.

“Sherlock’s choice.” John says. “Whatever he chooses is fine with me.”

“Good. Text me the name of the charity you’d like me to donate to.” James tells Sherlock. “I’ll make sure it's done before Christmas Day.”

“Thank you, again. For… reminding me that there are still a few good people in this world.” James says. “I should go. My driver is waiting.”

They say their goodbyes and exchange Christmas wishes but John’s heart is heavy when he sees James walking away.

He jogs to catch up with him and James turns around.

“James.” John says. “The holidays… they’re difficult for everyone. I’m sure this one won’t be easy. I’m here... Um.. we’re here if you need anything. Don’t…” He trails off.

James smiles and nods. “Thank you, John. Merry Christmas.” He says and turns to walk away.

* * *

This time it’s John who walks ahead, lost in a deluge of thoughts. Behind him, Rosie sits on Sherlock’s shoulders as they walk through the park, surveying her surroundings like a tiny Khaleesi.

They pass by a pond and ducks and dogs but John doesn’t take part in their exploration. Between seeing James walk away from them a defeated man and his disappointment with Sherlock, John is not a chatty mood.

“John.” Sherlock calls from behind him and John turns to look at him.

“Yeah?” He sighs.

“You’re upset.”

“Yeah.” He says simply, seeing no point in denying it.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Is it James?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Sherlock just stares at him, waiting for clarification.

“You really don't know?” John asks, frustrated. Sherlock’s continued silence confirms his suspicion. “You promised to not do anything stupid, Sherlock.”

“I was trying to save Alexander’s life. You were just as anxious to jump in there yourself.”

“Right, but I didn’t. There was a whole squad of policemen there, Sherlock, all with their weapons drawn!”

“It’s what I do, John. That’s the work. That’s _our_ work, you know that very well by now.”

Frustrated, John looks to the side to see if anyone can hear them. This is a private conversation but they may as well have it now or they won’t have it at all.

He moves closer, their bodies nearly touching. It’s not an intimate position; this is John, angry, needing to make his point clear.

“We had a conversation a few days ago, Sherlock, and I thought we understood each other. It was difficult for me… to… to... open up like that. But I did. I thought you understood when I told you that this case… that James, they’re not worth any trouble. That I don’t you need you to get hurt over it.”

“John…”

“Because I asked you if you understood and you said that you did. Was that a lie, Sherlock?”

“No-” Sherlock says but John cuts him off angrily.

“Do you know what was going through my head while Gabriel was pointing that gun at you? Do you? Hmm?” 

Sherlock shakes his head very slightly.

“I had this image in my head of having to call your mother, telling her that you’re dead while your father is on his deathbed.” He says furiously, his lips a straight line as he holds his anger back.

“I was so sick thinking I'll have to go home to Rosie knowing she’ll ask for you as soon as I come in. ” John says and points a threatening finger at Sherlock. “She’d been asking for you every night this week, Sherlock. And had anything happened to you I would have had to look at her and somehow explain that you’re not coming back. And that’s _assuming_...” John’s voice turns into a choked whisper.

“That’s _assuming_ I would have been able to do anything at all, to function _at all_ , after seeing you lying dead on the floor. _Again_. There's a limit to the number of times I can take seeing you dying in front of my eyes, Sherlock.”

Rosie senses the intensity of the conversation and she begins to fuss on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlocks grabs her and moves her from his shoulders to balance on his hips without a word.

“I know you never wanted any of this, Sherlock. I know you’re your own man.” John closes his eyes in pain, the words cutting through his heart. “That you never planned for… having a widow around, a child hanging off you. But you do and you’ll continue to unless you tell me you don’t want it. That you don’t want… whatever this is. But you have a responsibility to... to Rosie, to me, to your mother and your brother and your father. We all need you, Sherlock. You can’t just run around and tempt fate like that.”

Sherlock looks everywhere but at John, his eyes blinking quickly.

“I had to do that once, Sherlock. I had to go back home to Rosie after her mother died and I didn’t handle that well. How well do you think I would have handled it this time?”

John watches as Sherlock’s face suddenly orders itself into a cool, guarded expression. 

“I’m not Mary, John.” Sherlock says and John blinks for a long minute. 

“Yes, I know that, Sherlock. What does that have to do with everything I just said?”

“It means that Mary is her mother. You are her father. You’re her parents. Mary took a bullet meant for me and I will not let you take another. Better me than you. That’s what I mean, John.”

 _Better me than you,_ John repeats the words in his head as his mind stops functioning abruptly. His vision becomes red, but it’s not with anger. It’s the response his body produces whenever he gets a glimpse into Sherlock’s tragic, guilt riddled mind.

“You don’t really..” John gapes at him. “Sherlock. You don’t really walk around thinking that, do you?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. John knows he realized he said something troubling.

“Oh god.” John whispers and wipes his face. This is too much to unpack right here in the middle of the park. “I can’t... I can’t do this now.” He says faintly. “Rosie, come here.”

He calls for his daughter to switch from Sherlock’s arms to his and she does, luckily without a battle.

“I’ll text you later.” John says as he stares at a stumped looking Sherlock. He turns and walks away with Rosie in his arms.

“John.” Sherlock calls after him and he turns around. “I know you’re upset but... Do you think... Would you be available tomorrow? The hospital…”

And suddenly the ground drops beneath John’s feet because he’s truly and rightly an arse, isn’t he? This man juggled saving James and making end-of-life decisions for his father, and John found no better way to thank him but to start a row in the middle of the park.

“Christ.” John says and his entire body slumps. “Christ, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” 

He turns and walks back towards the other man. “Of course I will, of course. I never even asked how the visit today went.” He says and raises a palm to briefly touch Sherlock’s arm in what he hopes Sherlock sees as an apology. “I’m sorry. How was it?”

Sherlock swallows loudly. 

“Dr. Williams said he’s doing slightly better, actually. But I had to suffer through Mycroft and Mummy discussing hospice vs. hospital.”

“And who won?” John says and keeps his hand on Sherlock’s arm because even now, John is a greedy man and he'll take whatever opportunity he gets to do this.

“Nobody. We’ll have to wait till she breaks Mycroft’s spirit.”

“And what about your opinion? You get an equal say in this.”

Sherlock turns to him as if surprised by the very idea. 

“I... I think I’d rather have him stay in hospital.”

“Then you should tell them that.” John says with a small, reassuring smile. His hand moves to Sherlock’s back, guiding him forward. “Lunch? Well, early dinner, rather.”

“I thought you were going.” Sherlock says, slightly flustered.

“No.. sorry.” He shakes his head, his hand never leaving the small of Sherlock's back. “I was upset but I think I’m better now. So what else did Dr. Williams say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering - in my head, Gabriel's 'assistant' looks and sounds awfully like Lorne Malvo.


	8. Echoes, Silence, Patience, Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you say everything you wanted to say?” 
> 
> “Barely even scratched the surface.” Sherlock mumbles in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack to this chapter is the Foo Fighters song [Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jA4Mmk1nfPg) from an album that gave this chapter its name. In fact, go ahead and listen to the entire album - it played in the background as I was writing the second half of this story.

William Scott Holmes dies on his birthday.

It’s December 22nd. For the first time in more than a week, the sky opens up that day and it’s pouring rain.

The day after their difficult conversation in Regent’s Park, John and Sherlock visited William early in the morning. They were the only ones there and they were both quite OK with that. They spent the first part of their visit chatting amiably, preferring easy conversation about Rosie and the weather and some long overdue Mrs. Hudson gossip.

Dr. Williams stopped by to check on William and chat with John, going over his latest test results and general progress. Sherlock joined in on the conversation and asked for opinions on a hospice she mentioned the previous day.

John’s heart leapt when, holding on to William’s hand right before leaving, the other man gently squeezed his.

John and Sherlock were riding back to London, finalizing their (very minimal) plans for Christmas Eve. The mood was comfortable; Sherlock was moved by the sign of life his father gave by squeezing John’s hand.

They’re but ten minutes away from Baker Street when Sherlock’s phone rings and jolts the man out of his quiet contemplation. John doesn’t need to hear the conversation to know its contents. Sherlock’s body tenses as he listens, his eyes drifting to the window. He hangs up without a word but doesn’t move his phone away from his ear.

“Turn around. Back to the hospital.” John calls urgently, aiming his words at the driver.

John feels a lump in his throat that won’t go away as he moves to remove Sherlock’s phone from his frozen hand. He calls Rosie’s minder to explain the situation. She understands and offers to stay through the night if needed. John thanks her profusely, happy to have one less thing to worry about.

He looks over at Sherlock again and realizes, to his horror, that he has no idea what to do. Though they’ve known each other for so long, been through so many tragedies, he never really saw Sherlock in the throes of grief.

He thought Sherlock grieved over Irene Adler, but that wasn’t real, was it? Sherlock had known then that she was still alive. He knows Sherlock grieved over Mary but he wasn’t there to be a part of it. He shut him out back then. Not that he would have been much help, what with the shell of a man he was at the time.

In lieu of words, he moves closer to Sherlock. He places his palm gently on Sherlock’s knee, closing his eyes and praying to not be rebuffed.

He isn’t. They spend the rest of the ride like that, not exchanging a word.

* * *

By the time they arrive the ITU unit is quiet with the lack of activity typical to early afternoon.

Sherlock and John are huddled closely on a bench outside William’s room. They’re waiting for Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes to join them. John fills with dread when he sees them approaching. He never apologized for his outburst the other day and he feels horrible for it. He lowers his eyes, unable to face them.

Mrs. Holmes looks tired and resigned, her eyes red with tears. The mood is grim and the family members do not speak as they lay eyes on each other. John stands up, clears his throat and nods at them as they walk into Mr. Holmes’s room, closing the door behind them for privacy.

John stands by the door, straining his ears to listen for signs of distress. But the room is quiet; it might as well be empty, for all John can tell.

Ten minutes later the door opens and John jumps in surprise, moving away to allow them out. Mrs. Holmes leaves the room first, Mycroft right behind her. John waits for Sherlock to follow them and peeks behind when he doesn't. The door is only slightly open.

“Sherlock asked for a few minutes alone.” Mycroft clarifies in a neutral, reserved tone.

“Right.” John croaks. “My condolences, Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

They both nod politely at the platitudes. Condolences are always so awkward, John thinks. The person being consoled couldn’t care less about them while the person saying them knows they're never really enough. He remembers the days after his mother’s death, after Mary’s. Christ, after Sherlock’s. He remembers knowing people mean well but he hated the words nonetheless.

He dares a glance through the door, finding Sherlock seated in a chair next to the bed. His entire form is stretched forward, his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped between his knees. His head is lowered to the floor, eyes closed and his lips move very slightly.

Sherlock senses his gaze and opens his eyes, looking at him. John’s back straightens like a sentinel’s and he nods his head in response. _I’m right here_ , he says wordlessly. _Take your time_.

Sherlock closes his eyes again. 

“Dr. Watson.” Mrs. Holmes speaks, tearing his attention away from the man in the room. 

“John, please.” He says and squares his shoulders, though still unable to look at her. “I want to apologize. To both of you-”

“John.” She cuts him off. “I’d like to thank you. Dr. Williams mentioned you’ve been visiting and texting with her, monitoring William’s condition. I’m very thankful.”

John’s mouth opens in surprise at her kind words. 

“Of course. It was my honour.”

“It’s appreciated, nonetheless. And we accept your apology.” She says and looks at Mycroft, sending some unspoken order his way. Mycroft nods with a pained grimace as if to signal he accepts John’s apology too, proving once more Mummy is the most formidable member of the clan. 

"Oh." John says and looks between the two of them. 

"Also... Sherlock is my son, and I'd never blame him for his father's condition." She says, her voice catching. "Neither would have William. We were all quite emotional at the time."

"Alright, good." John croaks, unsure how to process. _You should tell your brother that_ , he wants to reproach her. _Sherlock is the one who deserves an apology here_.

“I invited my sons to stay over for Christmas.” She continues. “We have many things to discuss. Arrangements and such.”

“Of course.” John nods, hiding his frown. He couldn't wait to spend a quiet Christmas with Sherlock this year, but it looks like that's not going to happen.

“I wouldn’t want to impede on your plans for Christmas…” She hesitates. “I have Sherlock’s permission to invite you to join us. With Rosamund, of course, if you're willing. It’ll be a small affair, I’m afraid. What with Will’s condition I wasn’t keen on preparing for a big do’ but...”

“No, of course.” John says quickly, relieved. “Yeah, we’d like to be there. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Good.” She nods, determined. “Mycroft and I will see you back at the house, then.”

He nods, touched by this unexpected turn of events. _I have Sherlock’s permission to invite you to join us,_ she said. _Sherlock wants us with him_ , he thinks, his stomach filled with warmth. He would have found it impossible to spend the next few days away from Sherlock under these circumstances.

He watches Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes walk away and sits on the bench again, waiting patiently for Sherlock. He’s lost in thought, emotional, until he realizes some time has passed and Sherlock hasn't come out.

Worried, he stands up and peeks through the door again. This time he sees Sherlock standing, his shoulder straight and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He seems deceptively motionless but for his thumbs, moving restlessly against his palms.

John can only stand and stare, his body demanding that he moves closer to the other man, but this is Sherlock’s last opportunity to say a proper goodbye to his father. It’s not John’s place to interfere.

Still, it feels so unnatural to John; to not be a part, to not be there with him.

After what feels like an eternity, Sherlock turns to look at him. John’s heart fills with dread when he sees a hint of tears in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Can I… come in?” John whispers, hesitant.

Sherlock nods and John closes the door behind him. He moves quietly and plants himself by Sherlock’s side. He wants to lay a comforting hand on him, to hug him, but Sherlock is coiled like a spring.

Instead, John clears his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He says, for lack of anything else can say in such a situation. “Your mother invited me to join you. Thank you. I suppose you have arrangements to make, funeral and all that.”

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“No funeral. He asked that his body is donated to science.”

John looks at Sherlock, surprised. A sad chuckle leaves his mouth.

“He really was special, wasn’t he?” John asks and his mouth turns downward when he realizes his words caused Sherlock to look down, closing his eyes in pain.

“I was unfair to him when you were trying to convince me to visit him.” Sherlock says. “He was a good man. He was a good father, better than any of us ever deserved.”

“I know he was, Sherlock. I never doubted that.” 

“I’ve been remembering things about him recently. I spent most of my life thinking I never really knew him but... Some things are coming back to me. I think I… I think I deleted a lot more than just Eurus.”

John sighs and nods.

“Yes, Sherlock. It’s a defence mechanism, I know you know that.” John says. “Things were hard for you. For all of you.”

“I suppose.”

“What have you been remembering?” John asks. “Anything good?”

 _God, let it be good_. He thinks. _You can never know with this family_.

Sherlock turns his head, teary eyes staring deeply into John’s questioning ones. He looks hesitant before he speaks, then seems to make a decision.

“When I was fifteen, I had a friend… a boy. From the village. Father, he… walked in on us one time. We were kissing. Just kissing, nothing more. And father came in. I ran away that day. I was horrified that he’d tell Mummy and Mycroft and punish me. But he found me, hugged me. Said he didn’t care. That I’m his son and he loves me.” Sherlock smiles a bitter, apologetic smile. “It sounds like an after-school special, but that’s what he said. And he meant it.”

For a moment, John tries to speak but he can’t seem to make any sound. He hopes Sherlock doesn’t notice the emotional journey his face is most likely going through; the shock at the thought of a village boy kissing a fifteen-year-old Sherlock. The surprise at Sherlock’s admission. The warmth at the thought that Sherlock’s father was so, so kind to him. 

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John says, suppressing his multiple questions, emotions. “That’s a great memory to have. You’re lucky. Not everyone’s parents react that way.”

Sherlock only nods in response, frowning again. They stand a while longer until a nurse peeks her head in. John takes it for the gentle hint that it is. 

It’s time to go, time to leave William behind.

“Ready?” He asks gently.

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums. That can mean many things, John knows. 

“Did you say everything you wanted to say?” 

“Barely even scratched the surface.” Sherlock mumbles in response.

John frowns in sympathy, blinking to keep his own eyes from tearing up.

John moves, carefully closing William’s slightly open eyes. He sends gentle fingers towards William’s, echoing their touch earlier that day.

There are moments in every doctor’s day when they stop to consider the man or woman lying in bed in front of them. John had many moments like that when he was hit by the realization that a patient is someone’s child, someone’s spouse, someone's parent, and brother. Every patient has a life filled with joy and pain and love.

William Holmes lived a full life, John thinks. He was married to a woman he loved; he had a long, dignified career; he raised children. But there was also pain. For years he’d been sure that his daughter died and grieved her loss. For years he had to keep the secret of her existence to himself. To see his son drowning his own agony with needles, guns, and destructive self-loathing.

He had to stay strong in the face of bereavement and fight to preserve his remaining family.

Sherlock may have survived his own misadventures so far; he may have been given nine lives to live, but nature strives for equilibrium. Nature demanded its pound of meat in return for Sherlock’s apparent immortality. It got it in the form of dementia, stealing William Holmes' mind slowly and painfully, like an eroding rock.

A wave of regret blows through him like a punch in the stomach as he looks at William, peaceful in his final repose. He suddenly wishes he had the chance to really, really know him. To learn from him. Learn how to deal with grief and pain solemnly and gracefully, how to not be afraid of Sherlock’s defences, and break through them. 

How he wishes he'd had the chance to sit next to the older man and together watch Sherlock flutter around them, an identical mix of bafflement and deep, deep love on both their faces.

He should thank William for being a gentle, loving presence in his son’s life, even if not a perfect one. He’d like to promise him that he’ll take care of his son, that he’ll love him if he’s allowed to. 

He looks up to William’s face one last time and lets go of his fingers; with a final sigh, he turns and leaves the room, joining an awaiting Sherlock.

* * *

John rides back to London alone. Sherlock left for his mother’s house; John volunteered to pack a few things for both of them.

John hinted he’d like to give the remaining Holmeses some time together as a family. Sherlock threw him a nervous side glance in response and notified him that just might be the worst idea anyone had ever had (“ _That’s how wars start, John._ ”)

Still, John left Sherlock to face his fate, at least for a few hours.

He stops by Baker Street first. He packs Sherlock’s things, texts Lestrade with an update, telling him to not come over for his planned short visit on Christmas Eve.

John stops by Mrs. Hudson’s, who tears up at the news (“ _Oh, that poor boy. You take care of him for me, dear._ ”) She sends him away with stuffed stockings, a bowlful of soup and a box of ginger nuts for Sherlock, promising to have more food ready when they’re back.

He then stops by his flat, sending the minder home with a generous holiday bonus and warm Christmas wishes. It takes much longer to pack for spending a few days away with Rosie. A travel cot and snacks and toys and books and a frilly, burgundy Christmas Eve dress Mrs. Hudson purchased despite promising not to.

Filling the car to the brim and worrying if he’d overdone it, he secures Rosie’s booster seat and settles in for the ride. She’s silent and well behaved throughout and he sits back, his tense body finally relaxing.

* * *

By the time they reach their destination dusk is falling over the small, quiet village. John’s mind is clearer and he feels re-energized after the short respite thanks to an uneventful ride. He steps out of the car carrying Rosie in his hands. 

He surveys the house as he stretches his legs, transported suddenly to the first time he stood right here and looked at it in private reverence. That other Christmas, another terrible one in a line of sad Christmases this decade. This one is shaping up to be just as gloomy.

 _This is the house Sherlock grew up in_ , he remembers thinking back then. Where Sherlock took his first steps, ran around as a toddler. This is the place that shaped him and turned him into the person John knows.

Little did he know just how wrong he was. Because this isn’t the house Sherlock was born in, is it? He was born in Musgrave Hall and that’s where he had a few happy, careless years. He had a friend. They played pirates. He was a gentle, smart child until all control was lost over his sister, leaving him irrevocably scarred.

This house stands out in its solitude, as far away as possible from the village centre and neighbouring houses. This is the house the Holmes family escaped to from Musgrave, evidently opting to stay away from nosey neighbours and the mundane, indifferent lives of the other families in town. 

By the time the family moved here, Mycroft was away for school and Sherlock must have had very little time to make any friends or create new friendships. He was sent to public school and would only have visited during school breaks.

No wonder Sherlock isn’t attached to this place, he thinks. No wonder the man feels comfortable in mental and physical seclusion. This is how he was raised; in a bereaved household, under the pretension of normalcy that a small English village promises. But there is nothing normal about this family, in the most tragic of ways.

 _I’m not the only untethered one out of the two of us,_ he thinks.

It’s a minor miracle Sherlock achieved everything he had achieved so far. It’s a wonder he’d let anyone like John in at all.

“Sir?” The driver asks politely once he’s finished unloading their belongings in the house’s front porch, waking John up from his daydream.

“Right. Thank you.” John says and shakes the man’s hand. “Merry Christmas.”

* * *

John steps into the dark, noiseless house. He peeks around corners and feels like he’s entering an abandoned museum.

There’s a newspaper thrown on a side table next to a big chair in the sitting room, a man’s pair of slippers tucked underneath. There are used logs of wood in the fireplace, though there’s no fire in it right now. A great man’s coat hanging by the door, waiting for its owner.

It feels like time stopped here. It probably did, the minute William dropped to the floor without a word.

Rosie, in her instinctive toddler sense, is baffled by the atmosphere and clings to his neck. She mewls in his ear in protest. He assuredly shushes her as he steps into the wide kitchen, the only lit room in the dark house.

As soon he enters three pairs of sharp eyes turn to look his way. He suddenly thinks of the Titanic. He’s it, and he’s staring at the face of three blue-eyed icebergs.

“Hi.” He says stupidly and clears his throat. He turns to his side to show Rosie around. “Rosie, look who’s here.”

“Hello, Watson.” Sherlock says, his low baritone causing Rosie to look his way. She squeals and wiggles out of her father’s arms and runs to Sherlock who picks her up without a word.

Sherlock is the most calculated man when he wishes to be, but Rosie is an exception. When he looks at her, John gets a glimpse of what an adoring Sherlock looks like. He wishes he could be on the other end of that look of adoration one day. 

“How was your day?” Sherlock asks her.

“I feed the ducks.”

“Oh, you fed the ducks with Sheila?” Sherlock asks, familiar with Rosie's daily itinerary with her minder. 

He jerks as she pulls at his nose jokingly.

Rosie’s beautiful, rolling laughter fills the room. John could swear the house suddenly feels slightly warmer.

“Soup.” John blurts out and everyone looks at him. “Mrs. Hudson. She sent soup. And condolences, of course. Leek and potatoes, it’s a crowd-pleaser.”

“Ah, yes of course.” Mycroft says in mock. “The unsinkable Mrs. Hudson.”

“That’s very kind of her, dear.” Mrs. Holmes says in an inflection that John, being the Englishman that he is, knows means quite the opposite. He turns to look at Sherlock who rolls his eyes in sympathy.

 _Is there some kind of rule against one motherly woman sending food to an actual mother?_ John wonders. Did he just create some sort of motherly diplomatic incident?

That’s a shame really, Mrs. Hudson’s soup is excellent. They all agree with him by the time they have their second servings.

They retire to the large sitting room bearing nightcaps. Rosie steals everyone’s attention and her silly, careless smiles finally ease the tension in the room. John plays with her as he listens to the others discuss arrangements. There aren’t many to make, John realizes suddenly. Since William asked that his body be donated to science, there won’t be a funeral. The university will cremate his body and supply the family with the ashes. A memorial will be held after that, at an unknown time in the future.

It’s the memorial that Mrs. Holmes is worried about. She raises the option of having a service in the village church, to which both siblings respond with a guffaw.

“For the atheist who asked to donate his body to science?” Sherlock says.

“It could be nice.” Mrs. Holmes reproaches him. “I’ll ask the vicar to say a few words.”

“He hated that idiot vicar.” Mycroft supplies. 

“He did not!” 

“Of course he did.” Sherlock says dismissively.

“Well then we’ll hold it here. It’ll be crowded but it’ll have to do.” She says pointedly and turns to look at John. “The Vernets are a big family.”

John continues to listen, amused. The only thing they seem to agree on is Sherlock’s great-aunt Élise. John learns she’s an outcast on account of her insistence on being so shamelessly _French_.

“She’s the most horrible woman.” Mrs. Holmes assures John as Sherlock and Mycroft nod in agreement.

John suddenly wishes he could meet Aunt Élise. Knowing this family he senses the woman’s biggest sin is that she’s just plain normal.

“I can’t believe we were supposed to celebrate his birthday today.” Mrs. Holmes says and the room sobers up quickly. They’re all quiet for a long moment as if the realization caught them by surprise.

John raises his glass, looking for Sherlock’s eyes as he does so. 

“To William.”

The other three are surprised by his gesture but cooperate nonetheless.

“To William.” They say and raise their glasses in unison.

Later, Mrs. Holmes declares she is retiring. 

“My first night as a widow.” She says, her voice cracking. “Who’d thought I’d see the day.”

John offers a sad, sympathetic frown. He doesn’t remember his first night as a widower. He doesn’t really remember his first week as a widow, to be honest. It’s all a big blur. 

He can relate, though, to the dread of the void that is the sight of a half-empty bed. Things were bad between them by the time Mary died. She’d been gone for months before that. But his body remembered the sense of having someone else with him at night and the empty space chased sleep away for a long time after that.

After a while Mycroft retires as well, citing important business (there were mumblings about Bosnia and re-elections). 

When it’s only the three of them left in the living room, Sherlock’s mood swings quickly to unrest. No one but John would recognize the signs - the swift transition into the Mind Palace; it is something that usually keeps Sherlock still and unmoving for hours. Right now, however, Sherlock's body is jittery; he's restless. Attempting to solve some emotional difficulty he'll probably never open up to John about.

John wonders whether the lull in distractions - no more case, no more arrangements to discuss - is what’s causing the shift in Sherlock’s mood.

“He’s been awfully quiet.” John says of Mycroft, pulling Sherlock away from the bottomless distraction that is the Mind Palace.

“He’d been ordered to stand down and stay away.” Sherlock says sharply.

“From me?” John asks and Sherlock nods. “By whom?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow, expecting John to keep up. “Myself as well as Mummy. She insists this isn’t the time for your arguing, as do I.”

Reproached, John lowers his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it. I think she just doesn’t care to listen to his whinging.” Sherlock says, then clears his throat. “Lestrade texted earlier. They’ve learned some interesting stuff about Gabriel since taking him in.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently Alexander wasn’t the only ex Gabriel was sniffing around. They found another ex he confessed his love to, another one with an even richer husband.”

"What?" John gapes in shock. “So it was just…”

"Do you remember he mentioned flying to a friend's wedding in Hong Kong?" Sherlock asks and John nods. "He was a part of the wedding party for another ex of his." Sherlock says. "And he failed there too. The wedding went on as usual, but it raised his ex's suspicions."

"Oh my god... He's insane." John says of Gabriel.

“Yes, most likely. It was just a scheme. It wasn’t ever really about love.” Sherlock says. “The man we saw with Gabriel wasn’t a hired hand, per se. He ran a sort of extortion ring in Surrey harassing local business owners. He demanded money and Gabriel, in his dire financial situation, made some sort of deal with him. Help me get rid of a rich husband and we’ll split the money.”

“Oh my god. That’s terrible.” John shakes his head in disgust, in sorrow over James getting caught in such random circumstances of greed. James and Alexander’s marriage is ruined forever over a street thug’s desire for money.

“Very unfortunate, indeed.” Sherlock nods.

"That's... heartbreaking." John says, his voice cracking. After everything James has been through... Gabriel ruined so many lives. Irrevocably. "Christ. Does James know?"

"Not yet." Sherlock says. "I can't imagine it'll do any good to tell him."

John exhales loudly, still shocked over the news. He can only imagine how threatening the world seems to James right now. He was always paranoid indeed, always insisted on not reaching out for help. How must he feel now, knowing a professional who was supposed to have his best interest, to keep him safe, turned on him?

Who does someone in that situation turn for help to? 

He should reach out to James. He doubts James will say anything at all, accept anything at all, but he should. Once everything calms down here, he thinks. Once he knows Sherlock is alright.

He snaps from his thoughts when he notices Sherlock's body language turn tense yet again.

He knows there's no point in asking, but he has to. He has to. Sherlock lost his father today, and it's his job as Sherlock's... something, to take care of him. He promised as much to William today, didn't he?

“I know you hate when I ask you this but.. how are you?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.” Sherlock says quietly, running a hand through his hair. “What’s the proper response to that question?”

“You know that I don’t need a proper response, Sherlock. An honest one would do.”

Sherlock looks at him with a measured look. “I think he got lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’d have been rather happy knowing he didn’t wither away for years on end from dementia.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” John says, surprised by Sherlock’s always-unique perspective on things. “Still, it can get overwhelming…”

“I know that, John.” Sherlock sighs, frustrated.

“I’m just saying, it’s normal to feel…” John pleads.

“I’m fine, John!”

 _When will I ever learn_ , John thinks disappointedly, a lump quickly forming in his throat. _He never needs anyone._

“I... I think I might hit the hay as well. Are you coming?”

There are two rooms available besides Mrs. Holmes’: one is occupied by Mycroft and one is apparently destined for John, Rosie, and Sherlock.

Which, John will assure you as he assures himself, is _not a big deal_.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Why not? You haven’t slept in days. You must be tired.”

“I have a lot to think about, John.” Sherlock says and walks towards the coat rack.

"Like what?" John asks.

"Things, John." Sherlock says, begging to be left alone.

“Then think it in bed. I won't bother you.” John pleads. "Sherlock, please. It's been a difficult day. You need to cut your body some slack."

“Good night, John.” Sherlock says and turns to put his coat on.

Sherlock only goes as far as the gate to the house. He pulls a cigarette and lights it up, staring at the night sky. 

Dismissed, John picks a sleeping Rosie up and heads for the bedroom.

* * *

Alas, sleep escapes John, as tired as he is.

He nods off briefly for a short while but wakes disoriented to the sounds of footsteps in the room. His heart leaps when he thinks Sherlock decided to join him after all. Then he realizes Rosie must have been fussing because Sherlock quietly picks her up from her cot and leaves the room wordlessly.

John continues to toss and turn. The thoughts about an empty half of the bed return to him, though it’s silly. He doesn’t share a bed with Sherlock. In fact, he hadn’t shared his bed with anyone since Mary died. Yet the lack of another body leaves him bothered and wanting and he passes the hours frustrated and groggy.

By 3 am he simply can’t take it anymore. He spent the last hour listening to the echoes of Sherlock’s restless footsteps on that big carpet. They’re but whispers of sounds but they call out to him like a siren. He knows what this is. He’d heard this mix of sounds many times in his first tenure at Baker Street. This is a sad, troubled Sherlock, unable to calm down. He used to spend night after night listening to that Sherlock from his old bedroom, itching yet not allowed to help.

He’s had enough.

He gets up and takes the stairs slowly to find Sherlock staring out the big sitting room window, rocking his body in slow movements. Rosie is fast asleep against his broad shoulder.

John steps over and passes Rosie’s warm, pliable body from Sherlock’s chest to his own. 

Sherlock turns away, ready for John to leave him behind. But John doesn’t. He stretches his arm and offers his palm to Sherlock, signalling he wants Sherlock to join him.

“Please.” John says but Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Sherlock, please. I can’t sleep knowing you’re down here.” John says. “Don’t do this.”

Sherlock frowns and turns to look at John, really look at him. There are tears in his sleep-deprived eyes again and he passes his hand through his hair in a restless, anxious gesture.

“I’m so tired, John.” Sherlock’s voice is small and defenceless.

“So am I, Sherlock.” John says and stretches his hand again. “So am I. Come on.”

Finally, he takes John’s hand, who leads them up the stairs. John puts Rosie back in her cot and crawls into bed.

Sherlock is on his side and glued to the farthest point on the mattress, his back to John. It’s a closed-off stance if John had ever seen one, but at least he’s here and attempting to rest.

John can’t help himself. He sends a hesitant hand towards Sherlock’s wild curls and strokes for a few seconds, then gently brushes his nape. Sherlock’s body tenses for a split second, then he releases a long sigh. 

Deciding to err on the safe side, John takes his hand away.

He’s asleep in a matter of minutes, engulfed by Sherlock’s warm, familiar scent and the sight of the other man’s back falling and rising as he breathes in his sleep.


	9. Spitting Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I came back, John. didn’t I?”
> 
> “You…” John brows furrow. “Which time?”
> 
> “Every time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about Priya, in my head she looks like Mandeep Dhillon - and more specifically, like [Sandy from After Life.](https://www.looper.com/205205/why-sandy-from-after-life-looks-so-familiar/)
> 
> Some more blabbering notes in the endnotes today.

John wakes four hours later to the gentle sounds of Rosie’s morning monologue. He usually hears it through the monitor and the words are mostly a murmur, but listening to her now he catches ‘Daddy’ and ‘Sher’ and ‘Wosie’. It sounds like she’s making plans for the day, he thinks and smiles. The simplicity of it all. How wonderful must it be to be a two-year-old, knowing your day consists of nothing but toys, the people you love, and walks in a pushchair? He’s jealous of her, of her innocence.

He gets up and finds her sucking her thumb, her smile widening when she sees his face. He picks her and shushes her.

“Sherlock's still asleep, love.” He says and they leave the room quietly. “Let’s go find something to eat.”

John struggles with the portable high chair they brought with them and finds a banana to settle her before she fusses too loudly. He putters around the unfamiliar kitchen for the makings of tea with toast and finally sits down next to her, sharing small slices of bread with her.

Sherlock’s scent precedes him seconds before he steps into the kitchen. It grapples at John’s heart, the memory of sharing the bed coming back to him. Sherlock looks distracted and lost in thought, much to John’s disappointment. He’d hoped that the short rest and their physical closeness might improve his mood a bit. They don’t exchange a word but for a ‘thank you’ when John offers him tea. 

John struggles to tamper down the feeling of setback. Last night he was allowed to take Sherlock to bed, such as it were, to offer some consolation through small touches. He’s not even greeted this morning.

 _He'd lost his father yesterday_ , he tells himself, _and there was barely any time for any of them to accept it._ _This isn’t about you_.

“Banana.” Rosie says as she lifts a squashed piece of banana between her fingers, offering it to Sherlock. 

“Hmmm.” The man replies with a slight smile, not finding the idea of squelched banana appetizing. 

“Sher!” She calls him again and waves her hand, coaxing Sherlock to pick her up from her high chair. She can, technically, pronounce his full name by now, but John thinks she doesn’t care to. He supposes it’s an unofficial pet name.

Sherlock balances her on his hip and walks slowly and assuredly towards the other end of the kitchen. The outer wall, the one heading towards the backyard comprises a large, wide window, nearly the height of Sherlock’s body. The view is that of the outskirts of the small grove nearby. 

The morning is grey and windy and Sherlock and Rosie watch as the leaves on the trees move in tandem. Rosie laughs and jumps in Sherlock’s arm in excitement when a squirrel runs by.

“Mouse!” She says.

“Squirrel, Watson.”

“Skwoo.” She laughs again and tries the words in her own mouth.

“Squ-irrel.” Sherlock pronounces slowly for the little girl’s benefit.

“Oh.” 

John hears someone approaching and turns to find Mrs. Holmes, her eyes red with what is either tears or sleeplessness ( _probably both_ ). She stands at the entrance to the kitchen, taking in the sight of Rosie giggling in Sherlock's arms.

“Hello.” John says in lieu of a ‘good morning’ since this clearly isn’t one. 

She gives her head a good shake as if waking from a dream. 

“There’s an old photo of Will holding Sherlock, just like that.” She says as if to explain her confusion. “I was thrown back in time for a minute. It was taken in Musgrave, of course. Not here. Sherlock was younger, I think he was teething at the time, so miserable. We just bought a new camera and I wanted to practice using it, you know.”

John listens and smiles politely. Clearly he’s not the only one who sees the physical resemblance between father and son. 

“How about a proper breakfast?” She asks and John tries to insist it’s not necessary but she has none of it. She gets started on it and doesn’t allow John to help.

“What are your plans for today?” She asks John.

“I thought we’d go to the village centre, maybe find something to do Rosie might like. And we could buy something for tomorrow, you know. Some food. Whatever you all like to eat.”

“Anything you bring will be fine.” She says and John nods. “It’s nice of you to offer.”

“Of course.” John says.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks and John hesitates. He’s not sure he’s the object of this inquiry. “Did you sleep at all, dear?” She tries again, directing her question to Sherlock this time.

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge her.

“It’s nice to have a baby in this house.” She tells John with a sad smile as she sits down to eat. It’s nothing complicated, just some fried eggs and sausages. “I wish you’d come visit more often dear, not only when you need to drug your friends or bury your father.”

And if she was hoping to get a response out of Sherlock, it finally works. His body tenses and the smile he’s had on while holding Rosie is wiped from his face. John lowers his face to the table, feeling the same hurt he felt when Sherlock was blamed for his father’s condition at the hospital.

“I don’t remember being invited at any other time.” Sherlock says while staring out the window, his voice cold.

“You don’t need to be invited, dear. This is your home.” She says.

“Is it?” He asks bitterly.

When she doesn’t respond Sherlock turns and puts Rosie back in her high chair. John watches with a heavy heart as he leaves the kitchen without a word, only to return fully dressed, his coat flowing behind him.

He heads to leave the house through the kitchen door.

“Sherlock…” John calls after him. “When will you be back? We said we’d go to the village centre later.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, John sees him pulling a cigarette out of a packet of cigarettes as he steps through the door. His hurt is evident in the quick, agitated steps he takes as he follows the trail that leads up to the nearby grove. 

John sighs, unsure how to behave around Sherlock’s mother who still sits next to him. Finally, the woman gets up herself.

“Excuse me, John.” She says and leaves the kitchen in a haste.

 _That went well._ He thinks as he shakes his head.

* * *

John spends the morning alone with Rosie in the sitting room, playing and reading to her. He sneaks a glance out the big windows every once in a while, hoping to catch Sherlock’s silhouette as he approaches the house. He never sees or hears Mrs. Holmes or Mycroft the entire time.

It was nice to be invited to spend their Christmas here despite William's death. He’s lucky Rosie is still young enough to not understand what’s going on, but he vows to make a significant effort to give her truly happy Christmases starting next year. Yes, it’s a silly holiday - he was never one for holidays in general - and a lot of the cheer is fake and manufactured. But it’s nice to stop and celebrate something, whatever that may be, once a year. They’ve been robbed of so many reasons to be cheerful he swears to do better by her going forward.

Sherlock returns three hours later, stinking of cigarettes and his shoes dirty with mud. Thankfully, it seems his mood had subsided enough to ask John for another cup of tea and agreeing-by-silence to visiting the village centre.

John’s mood lifts as well when Sherlock silently takes over getting Rosie ready for the outing. Her silly babble makes them both giggle as they look around to make sure they didn’t forget anything and they leave the house without exchanging a word to the other Holmeses (Mycroft emerged at some point, making important-sounding phone calls and silently criticizing Rosie’s developmental skills as she was stacking play cubes).

They drive, rather than walk, using Mrs. Holmes' car. The drive is longer than expected, John realized. The village is not as small as thought it to be. Sherlock's driving without a map, clearly recollecting small paths and unpaved roads. John can see that he scans the houses and the people walking by. He wonders how much Sherlock remembers from this place; whether he recognizes old faces or noticing new ones. Is this a nostalgic drive for him? Is he uncomfortable here as he seems to be uncomfortable in most places?

Rosie is nothing short of delighted over the sights and sounds of the Christmas Market. Right at the centre of the village stand three large, yellow-stoned market halls full of stalls and holiday-themed activities for children. Every storefront is decorated in the spirit of the holiday and the streets are filled with the sounds of tourists and locals as they take in the sights. 

They begin by simply strolling around the market stalls, Rosie in her pushchair, pointing and calling every time she discovers something new and exciting. Sherlock is walking shoulder to shoulder with him, unnerved by all the sounds, sights and people.

“Hey,” John assures him with a smile. “It’s alright. This is nice, I like it here.” And he does. John can’t remember the last time he felt so carefree, so casual. Unencumbered enough to be able to enjoy a stroll with Sherlock by his side.

Sherlock nods and allows himself to relax. They leave the market halls for a while, heading towards the high-street stores in hopes of finding everything on their list.

“Will?” A voice is coming from behind them as they cross the small street. “Hey, Will! Oh, Sherlock!”

They turn around and see a young woman with a baby in a baby carrier walking slightly behind them.

“You’re going by Sherlock these days, I forgot.” She says with a bright smile as she catches up to them.

“Priya?” Sherlock asks, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah! You remembered.” She says, probably only half-joking. “How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you since you left for uni.”

“Yes.” 

“You must be Dr. Watson.” She says and offers her hand to a frankly surprised John. “Yeah, I read your blog. Everyone around here does. He’s the local celebrity, this one, running around all the way up in London, talk of the pub. Well, not that there’s much to talk about around here. I’m Priya. “

“It’s nice to meet you.” John says, affected by her infectious smile and positive energy. She looks at Sherlock with friendly eyes, not at all worrying over his cool exterior.

“How’s your father? We heard he’s been ill.”

Sherlock’s face barely flinches. Only John can see it.

“He passed yesterday.”

Priya’s face falls at that. 

“Oh. Gosh. I’m so sorry.” She says and looks between Sherlock and John as she speaks. “I am. He was a wonderful man, he really was. My father loved him. He was so understanding after Amit…” her speech trails. “He was so kind to my father after Amit passed. They used to take long walks together. I think they understood each other.”

“Amit’s…” Sherlock says with a frown and the Priya’s look falls even further. She swallows before she speaks again.

“He died. In Uni. I thought you knew.”

Sherlock shakes his head, caught off guard by the news. “What happened?” He asks.

“He OD’d.” She says, her face sobering.

“I’m sorry.” John says, surprised by the sad turn the conversation just took; he reads between the lines and realizes Priya’s father had passed at some point, too.

A sibling and a father, just like Sherlock. It must have been a while since she’d lost both, she seems so cheerful and lively.

“Thank you. No, gosh. I’m sorry. I was so happy to see you, you know. Just wanted to say hi and look at what I did.” She says and rocks her body lightly, partly for the baby’s sake and partly due to her discomfort.

She rallies and tries again.

“So, do you still keep your nose stuck down that microscope?” She says with a hopeful, mischievous smile. John admires her for the quick turnover.

“Yes. I’m a chemist.” Sherlock says in that tone that hints that he didn’t get the joke. “Do you still collect fossils at the beach?” Sherlock asks in return and John realizes he actually did.

“Yes.” Priya says without batting an eye. “I’m a palaeontologist.”

 _Nerds_ , John thinks and chuckles quietly.

“Of course you are.” Sherlock says with a warm smile. “Congratulations.”

“I moved back from Bristol when this one was born. Single mother,” She says. “Never found the right man. Mum was scandalized at first but melted the minute she met her. Maya.” She says and turns around to show the sleeping baby.

“She’s lovely.” John says with a warm smile.

“Thank you. So is this little one.” Priya says and looks at Rosie.

“Rosamund.” Sherlock says with a hint of pride.

“Hi, dear. You’re lovely. Those pretty eyes.” Priya says, then straightens up when Maya starts to fuss.

“I’ll be off, then, before she starts wailing. The lungs on her.” Priya says finally. “You should come over. It’s only Mum and me these days. Karan and Kali left for the US years ago, but she’d love to see you. There’d been no one smart enough to challenge her essays in years.”

Sherlock only smiles curtly.

“Merry Christmas.” John says as she leaves.

Sherlock stares at Priya as she leaves. 

“You alright?” John asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “So, the shops?”

John scans Sherlock's face automatically, trying to parse out the feelings the other man is clearly masking.

“Yes.” John agrees.

* * *

“We’ll take this one. As is. Decorations and all.” John hears Sherlock’s baritone voice from the other side of the Christmas tree shop. They only came inside to browse for Rosie’s sake; he didn’t think they’d actually buy one.

John usually uses the small artificial tree he stole from Harry years ago; Sherlock, however, made it clear the Holmses insisted on a real, big tree every year. 

He sends a raised eyebrow Sherlock’s way.

“Watson’s choice.” Sherlock explains and looks up towards the tiny tyrant sitting on his shoulders, giddy with the way things are progressing today. She really has Sherlock wrapped around her fingers, that one. John can’t help but wait for her to grow up enough to ask her how she does it.

When they reach the cash register the store owner's jaw drops.

“As I live and breathe.” She says. “Will Holmes. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in these parts in ages.”

“Hello, Mrs. Worthington.” Sherlock nods politely as he offers his credit card. 

“So official.” She giggles and looks at John. “Used to steal Christmas crackers every year, that one.”

Sherlock clears his throat, embarrassed. “Father always paid for them.”

“How is your dear father, by the way? Haven’t seen him in a while.”

And John’s face falls again, realizing the fault in his plan of visiting the village when no-one has been told yet. He wonders how many times they’ll have to break the news to people.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.“ Mrs. Warthington says when Sherlock breaks the news. “He was a dear. This one’s on me.” She says and points at the tree.

“That won’t be necessary.” Sherlock says.

“Please, I insist.” She says. “He always bought the biggest tree, every year. You’re all set.” She says and looks at her assistant with a nod. “You’ll have it over at your house in an hour or two.”

They thank her profusely and head for the shops. They get some chicken, sausages, sides - all premade, John figures it might save everyone a lot of unneeded stress over the next few days.

Later, they stop by a quaint and rather ancient-looking bookstore. They step inside, cheery Christmas music filling their ears. Sherlock is busy being loudly appalled by the _‘amount of misguided educational messaging in children’s books these days’_ when John's eyes land on a wall full of photos.

The store _is_ indeed ancient, John realizes. The photos are those of store visitors throughout the years, probably local village people taken by an amateur yet friendly photographer. John’s heart stops when he finds what he was hoping to find, up on the right end side of the wall.

It’s a sepia-toned photo, one he recognizes must have been taken in the early 80s. William Holmes stands tall, handsome, and proud, holding hands with young Sherlock and Mycroft. There are long rows of bookshelves behind them and William smiles shyly to the camera. The two boys cling to him holding books in their hands.

His throat catches when he suddenly realizes what it was that Mrs. Holmes saw this morning in the kitchen.

Sherlock is the spitting image of his father. 

He senses Sherlock coming up behind him, standing very close.

“Look at you.” John says, barely containing his emotions. He can’t take his eyes away from the photo.

“I forgot this was here.” Sherlock murmurs, embarrassed.

“Do you remember having it taken?”

Sherlock swallows and nods. 

“He used to volunteer reading children's books at the hospital. We’d pick the books and the store owner would donate them. They asked him to come back every year. He was the children’s favourite. Must have been something about his voice. I think they liked it.”

 _Of course _t_ hey did. _ John thinks. _Just like Rosie loves yours. Just like I do._

John can’t help but stare at the framed photo for a long time after that. He pulls his phone and takes a photo of it, staring at it fondly as they say goodbye to the sales clerk.

* * *

By late afternoon they’re having lunch in a small Cafe overlooking the village’s millpond. The place is surprisingly quiet despite how busy the village high street seemed. John was worried that means the food isn’t quite good but Sherlock assured him he won’t be disappointed.

Rosie is snoring softly in her pushchair, dead to the world. The day had been exciting and she closed her eyes the second they stepped into the quiet establishment. They ate in comfortable silence and are now sitting close, kitty-corner. John’s enjoying some more mulled wine, both watching the pond through the window.

John turns to look at Sherlock. Really, really examine him. 

He made an assumption about this village when they got here yesterday and it seems he was wrong. Sherlock is no stranger in this place. People had been waving at him throughout the day. And what’s more, Sherlock’s father wasn’t the loner he thought he was. Everyone in the village had nothing but kind words to say about him.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm.”

“Priya seems nice.” John dips his toe, hoping to successfully engage the man in conversation.

“She is. I.. completely forgot about her. She was… nice to me, growing up.” Sherlock says.

“I dare say she was even a friend.” John teases and Sherlock smiles at the table. “Was Amit a friend as well? Is that her brother?”

“Her older brother, yes.” Sherlock nods but frowns as memories surface. “She should be around Eurus’ age, maybe a few months younger.”

“Yeah?”

“I met them in Sea Cadets.”

“Oh?” John chuckles at the thought.

“One of Mummy’s more misguided ideas.” Sherlock says and they laugh amicably. “Amit hated it too and Priya would always tag along. We’d end up searching for fossils on the beach instead, every day.”

“Ah. Hence Paleontologist Priya.” John says. “You hated Sea Cadets? Thought you wanted to be a pirate.”

“Not back then.” Sherlock responds soberly.

 _Right_. John thinks. _Pirate Sherlock was pre-Eurus, pre-Victor._

“Amit was…” Sherlock continues. “The boy I told you about. That father…”

“Oh.” _Oh._ “So Amit was your... boyfriend?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock laughs. “It was just... fumblings. Teenage experimentation, I suppose.”

John takes a long hard sip of the mulled wine, burning his tongue in the process. Luckily, he might add. He has an encyclopedia-length list of questions he’d like to ask Sherlock about his history of fumblings and experimentations, right here and right now.

He holds back, though. He wants this conversation to continue, after all.

“The drugs... ?“ John starts.

“No, it didn’t start here,” Sherlock says. “Not before uni.”

“Were there others?” John asks. “Friends, I mean. Other friends?”

Sherlock shrugs, unsure.

“You had a full life here, Sherlock. You had friends. You stole Christmas crackers.” John smiles as Sherlock turns to look at him. He gestures towards the general direction of the village. “Did you just delete all of... _this_?”

He can see Sherlock's thought process as he considers his next words.

“I… I didn’t delete it as much as…” Sherlock stops, unsure of how to continue. John sighs in understanding.

“You just never saw it for what it was, did you?”

“I suppose I didn’t.” Sherlock admits.

“That’s a shame, Sherlock.” He says honestly. 

Sometimes, when John is allowed in, he finds certain patterns in Sherlock’s character. This one just might be the most poignant one yet; Sherlock, it seems, always fails to notice the good things in his life. The people who love him, his importance to them.

He'd always known that Sherlock is different. That he manages quite well with the emotional bonds most people need to survive their everyday lives... but to think that Sherlock doesn't see, doesn't recognize it when people care about him. It fills him with sadness. He must have felt so, so lonely his entire life.

John knows what loneliness feels like. He knows what made his go away.

He makes a decision and speaks again.

“Sherlock, when you were gone... I was heartbroken. Heartbroken.” He repeats for emphasis and then sees the shock on Sherlock’s face in the face of that admission. “And not because I felt guilty or shocked. I mean that I was... I was lost. I was lonely. You and I, we had a life together, didn’t we?”

Sherlock turns to look at John, his eyes naked with emotion.

“We had.. we had... Something good, didn’t we? I was happy.” John continues. “I could’ve gone on like that…” 

He stops to shake his head, to keep his voice from shaking.

With a sudden ache John is transported to one morning in Baker Street. They were having breakfast together, Mycroft hovering around them like a fly. He remembers the warmth of the domesticity they shared back then, a misleading comfort he indulged in unaware that it’ll be taken away from him very soon. All of a sudden, Irene’s first text message arrived and John felt like it was the end of the world. 

_I’m not stupid, you know._ He told Sherlock. 

That was the first John suspected that maybe Sherlock _does_ romance after all. Baker Street turned and twisted around him as he ate his eggs by the table, hit with the realization that one day someone smart and brilliant like Irene Adler might sweep Sherlock away from him. That was his biggest fear at the time. To be the one who gets to stand by Sherlock, to bask in his brilliant light, only to be left behind in someone else’s glorious dust. Abandoned and forgotten, lost without Sherlock in the same way he was when he came back from Afghanistan.

“But you didn’t see, did you? You didn’t know when you jumped that I…” John chokes up when 

Sherlock swallows loudly.

“And it’s not just me, Sherlock. You have people in your life. You’re important to them. Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson. Priya, as it turns out. Mycroft. These are people who will notice when you’re gone. They’ll miss you.” John stops to think. “Back then... people would come up to me in the street back then, or they would email. People you helped who wanted me to know how you changed their lives. People who admired you from afar.”

He stops talking for a long moment, hoping that Sherlock might chime in. But the other man is uncomfortable, unsure how to respond. 

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t like all this… emotion. But you’re not dispensable, Sherlock. Look at Rosie. I meant every word I said the other day at the park. We need you, both of us. If you can’t see that for yourself...”

“John, I-” Sherlock starts but John needs to say it, to put it out there.

“I was happy back then, Sherlock. Sometimes there’s nothing I’d like better than to go back in time and... I mean, I love Rosie but things were simpler then.”

“They didn’t seem simpler to me.” Sherlock says and John looks at him in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“There was Moriarty, back then.” Sherlock explains. “He was always there in the background. I could sense it, I could sense that something was coming.”

“I never thought about it that way.” John admits. “No, you're right. But was it just me…?”

_Did I imagine it, what we had back then?_

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Jumping from that building, John.” Sherlock says and clears his throat, gathering his strength. “That’s my biggest regret in life. It’d taken something from us I’ve never been able to bring back.”

John nods, his heart in his throat over Sherlock’s admission. He looks at Sherlock’s face intently, trying to assess how much more honesty he can take from him today.

“I haven’t been happy myself, Sherlock. For a long time.” John says and Sherlock stares at him with a mixture of fear and guilt. “No, not because of you... I just… I miss the way things were. I hate it all. I hate that damn flat. I hate those wallpapers and the beige pillows. And the neighbours, god, the fucking neighbours with their cars and the garden ornaments...”

He stops his tirade when he hears Sherlock’s laughter.

“Took you long enough to admit that.” Sherlock says.

“Hey, that’s not funny.” John says but he giggles all the same.

“Of course you hate the suburbs.” Sherlock laughs still. “You, John Watson, were not meant for the suburbs.”

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because, it’s not my place to say.” Sherlock says and his answer is sobering. Of course he would think that. “It’s Mary’s flat. That’s why you’re there. You want Rosie to grow up in the house she shared with her mother.”

“No, not really.”

“Then why are you still there?”

John shrugs. 

“I don’t know, inertia? Power of habit?” He wonders to himself just as much as he speaks. “I didn’t think I had other options.”

“Perhaps…” Sherlock starts. “When we go back to London we can… discuss options.”

“Yeah?” John asks, his eyes widening in surprise. He just won something he never even knew he could wish for. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good.” Sherlock says, hiding his smile.

“Good.” John says in return, squeezing the other man’s knee. “I like it here.” John says. “Christmas in a small village. Mum and Dad took us to one. Before... You know. It was nice.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow for a split second, as if he's about to speak.

“What?” John asks.

“Haven’t you ever wondered about them?” Sherlock asks.

“About Mum and Dad?”

Sherlock nods.

“Wondered what?” He asks. Sherlock raises his eyebrow in expectation.

“What happened to your father. What happened to your mother.” 

John turns white as a sheet. “Why? What do you know?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock says. “Nothing, I assure you.”

“Sherlock.” John says, his voice threatening.

“Nothing, John. I know nothing more than the things you told me.” Sherlock explains. “But wouldn’t you like to know one day?”*

John isn’t sure what to say to that.

“Should you ever-” Sherlock says.

“I… I don’t know, Sherlock.” John interrupts him. He thinks about Eurus, the magnitude of that revelation for the Holmeses. The heartbreak brought with it. Who knows what delving into his father’s life might bring up. Who knows what figuring out whether his mother was murdered after all might. 

The thought sends a chill down his spine.

“Not right now, no.” He shakes his head. “I think maybe… I think it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Sherlock stares out the window for a long time. “Quite right.” The detective nods with solemn finality, accepting John’s decision.

They finish their drinks silently, contemplating the implications of their conversation. Finally, they gather their things and head back.

* * *

It has been a long, long day and John’s body finally gives in and demands sleep. He retires early and succumbs to a much-needed slumber following the events of the past week.

Around 3 am, sounds of footsteps wake John. He looks up, disoriented in a room that isn’t his. A dark silhouette of one very specific detective is what he finds by the door. Sherlock stands there, hesitant.

“Wassup?” John blurts from a sleep-addled brain. When Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he raises the duvet. “Come here.” As if awoken from a magic spell Sherlock launches into movement. He crawls into the sheets and takes the same position as he did last night; his back to John, far away.

John is tired so he falls asleep again, quickly and deeply. He wakes up, however, when he feels Sherlock tossing and turning. He turns his whole body onto his side, looking at Sherlock with a sigh.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“How can you not be tired? You should be exhausted by now. They should study you.” John says and they giggle.

John is now fully awake and he’s _in a mood_. Sherlock’s openness in their earlier conversation left him wanting more.

“So. Is this your old room?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Small.”

“I suppose.”

“Used to spend a lot of time here?” John teases. Sherlock turns to look at him, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Is this where you’d bring boys for fumbling experimentations?” John asks. He’s been sitting on that question for hours.

Sherlock, John realizes, truly and actually snorts at that.

“Really, John?”

“Yes, really. I discovered some top-secret Sherlock information today, I need all the facts.” John says, amused. He’s pretty sure if the light in the room was on he’d face nature’s rarest life form: a blushing Sherlock Holmes. "How many?” John asks shamelessly.

“I assure you, the reality of it was far less exciting than you seem to make it.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” 

“I promise it poses no competition to Three-Continents-Watson,” Sherlock says leaving John delighted, completely delighted with wherever this conversation is going. “Though one of them was one of Mycroft’s friends.”

John gasps with a mix of delight and horror. _So at least two!_ His stupid brain chirps excitedly. “Does he know?” John giggles.

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m saving that little piece of information as a doomsday weapon. Mostly because it’s someone he still works with today. I see him at the Diogenes every once in a while.”

John’s brain freezes as he thinks back to every man he ever passed by in the club. Then he realizes he has no idea where Sherlock learned about his army nickname, so he deflects the conversation away from any friends of Mycroft’s who once kissed Sherlock Holmes, holding that thought for later.

“I’ve no shame in that nickname, by the way,” John says. “It’s well-earned too.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock hums. “I always wondered. Does Three Continents imply having sex in three continents or having sex with people originating from three different continents?”

John needs to browse through a long mental list before coming up with a rather impressive answer. “Both, I suppose. Though it may need to change to Four-Continents-Watson if that’s the case.” A short, redheaded South-African suddenly comes to mind. 

Sherlock’s mouth twists in judgment.

“Are you calling me a slag?” John asks, amused.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Bill Murray gave me that nickname and let me tell you, he was no blushing virgin by any measure. I don’t mind. I love sex, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But not with James.” Sherlock clarifies, taking John’s breath away.

“Not James. But there were others.”

“Fumblings.”

“Captain Watson doesn’t _fumble._ ” John says seriously before breaking into another giggle fit.

“In Afghanistan?” Sherlock asks.

“Some in uni. You know, med school pressure. But no one since… no one since James. That was... Off-putting. For a long time.”

“But never in London.” Sherlock says more than asks. John finally realizes what Sherlock is asking.

“No, never in London.”

“So…” Sherlock starts.

“So?” John responds in encouragement.

“So…” He tries again. “Every time you demanded you’re not gay it was only somewhat true. Or do you still think of it as… stress relief? A solution for difficult times?”

“Oh.” John says, caught by surprise by Sherlock’s interpretation of his words. “Oh. That’s not what I meant…”

Sherlock stares at the ceiling when he speaks next.

“How did you mean it, then?”

 _How did I mean it?_ John asks himself, realizing he berated James on his own harsh words only a few days ago. He hadn’t been that different, had he? 

John clears his throat.

“I…” He begins without really knowing how to continue. “That depends, I think. There was sex… and that was, you know. I took whatever came. And there was… love. You know. And after James I never tried again. With men, that is. Women seem less threatening in that sense. Like the risk isn’t that big, you know?”

 _Which is an utter lie, Watson. Because you did try again since James, didn't you?_ He think. _But you were kindly but summarily rejected._

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“You… don’t know.” John says. “So there were only ever…”

Sherlock turns to look at him.

“Men.” John completes the sense.

“Of course.” Sherlock says as if that little piece of information is the world’s most obvious one.

For a long minute, John gets lost his head in an argument about just how _not obvious_ that is, but he stops himself. Pick your battles, they say. This is one battle he really shouldn’t be picking right now.

 _So, men. Only._ He thinks. _Probably not many. Most likely there hadn’t been any in a long while. Now you know, Watson. What are you going to do about it?_

“For what it’s worth…” John hesitates, picking his word carefully. “For what it’s worth, the thing with James was off-putting, but… it’s… it’s not anymore.”

"I see." Sherlock says, just barely.

They let the words settle over them like a heavy blanket. They’re both silent for a long time after that. John nearly gives up the fight to sleep again when he suddenly hears Sherlock’s soft voice.

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispers. “For being here. I’m not as outnumbered as I usually am.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to…” John sighs in frustration. “You shouldn’t thank me for being here for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s... It’s what I do. It’s what we do.” John says, flustered. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “Yes. Alright. Still, though. I’m thankful that you’re here.”

“Of course, Sherlock. Where else would I be?”

“Anywhere. You could be anywhere else.”

John sighs, fed up with tiptoeing around. “I never wanted to be anywhere other than by your side since the day I met you, Sherlock.” He confesses, awaits a response that isn’t coming. “I hated every minute when I wasn't.”

Sherlock is silent, unsure of how to respond. “Sentiment.” He says finally.

“Yes. I’m afraid so.” He nods. “Is that alright?”

John hears Sherlock grinding his teeth before he speaks. “I came back, John. didn’t I?”

“You…” John brows furrow. “Which time?”

“Every time.”

“That was for my benefit?”

“It certainly wasn’t for mine.”

John turns to look at Sherlock again, emotional.

_For me?_

“I’m glad you did.” John says quietly. “As long as you never leave again.”

  
  



	10. Love and War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will liked you.” She says with a sad smile, trying to change the atmosphere.
> 
> “He barely knew me.” John says.
> 
> “We read your blog. Every single case.” 
> 
> “Really?” John says and laughs when she nods enthusiastically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready for some Mrs. Holmes?

John sleeps in. He wakes up around 9am, well-rested and comfortable. When he opens his eyes he looks around and finds himself alone; no Sherlock, no Rosie. A small note next to his phone tells him that Sherlock took Rosie for a walk.

He lies in a bit, thinking about last night's conversation. Sherlock’s moods have been swinging like a pendulum. One moment he’s closed off, another they’re joking about John’s sex life. 

John loved that they had that conversation. It made him feel so alive. Sherlock has always been funny, witty, but their conversations never went that way. Somehow though, John realizes he’s the one who’s been doing all the talking. Sherlock revealed so very little but even the little bits of information he did share mean the world to him.

Eventually he gets up, unable to deny his body’s call for some tea. As he takes the stairs to the kitchen floor he notices something’s different. The house is full of flowers, consolation gestures from the people John and Sherlock broke the news to in the village yesterday. 

_That’s nice_ , he thinks. William certainly deserved it.

He finds Mrs. Holmes alone in the kitchen, staring at nothing. They greet each other but remain silent as John makes tea and sits next to her.

“Sherlock’s gone for a walk with Rosie.” He reports awkwardly, unsure how to start a conversation given yesterday morning. ”Have they been gone long? Not sure when’s a good time to start worrying.” 

“I wouldn’t worry. He’s probably at the Parashars.” Mrs. Holmes says and John raises his eyes in question at that. “I thought you mentioned meeting Priya yesterday?”

John nods when he understands.

“He’d always run away to their house when he’d get bored or upset with me. Her parents were scientists. He’d criticize their publications, debunk their citations.” She says with a dismissive tone and John laughs. “They’re a wonderful family. Been through quite a lot themselves.” 

“Priya mentioned that they lost her brother.” 

“Yes. Those damn drugs. It was dreadful.” She nods. “Right around the same time Sherlock… when Amit died and William was beside himself. He saw how their father took it. I think he realized it could happen to us any minute. ”

John nods, saddened by the pain brought on by drugs to both families.

Mrs. Holmes releases a heavy sigh, rubbing her temple.

“I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m supposed to live alone every day from now on. How do _you_ do it?” She asks. “You’re a widower. And with a small child to raise, no less.”

“I just... do.” He says and shrugs. “Not sure I’m doing a very good job of it. But I take every day at a time, get some help. And there’s Sherlock, of course. Rosie loves Sherlock.”

“I can tell.” Mrs. Holmes smiles warmly. “I’m surprised, to be honest. He swore off children when he was young. He used to tell me he’d never do that, pass his genes to anyone.”

John’s throat tightens in pain at Sherlock’s harsh words. The man’s brain is nothing short of a minefield.

“I thought it was a terrible thing when he said it back then.” She admits. “But these days, after everything I’ve been through… I can see his point. Don’t get me wrong, I love them. I love them dearly. But look at everything they’ve been through, all the pain they suffered since the day they were born.”

John hums in agreement. He knows the feeling very well.

“You must think I'm a terrible mother.” She admits and sends a guilty-looking glance his way.

“Oh, no.” He says and chokes on his words. “Believe me, I’m in no position to criticize anyone, let alone you.”

“The things Sherlock must have told you.” She shakes her head.

“He doesn’t tell much, to be honest.” John admits. She sighs again.

“He was always like that, even before we left Musgrave. Lived in his own head, never really shared anything. Things were different back then for children like him, you know. The diagnoses, the teachers. Even doctors didn't really know what to say about him.”

“So there were… diagnoses?” He probes. Not that it matters, he thinks. Every diagnosis given about Sherlock after Eurus died could never really encompass everything he went through as a child.

“Oh, there were at least six or seven different ones.” She says with a grimace. “Each doctor completely ignored the other doctors’ opinions. But the thing is that I had the same… difficulties growing up. With people, in certain situations. Will was the only one who made any sense to me. I assumed that I understood Sherlock and what he was going through. I thought that knowing how things felt for him would make it easy for us. So I pushed him to do the things I did, but that went horribly. By the time he became a teenager, he resented me for pushing all the time. There was no talking to him. It’s like I was invisible. He only trusted Mycroft and William.”

John nods, touched by her story. She’s a tough lady; he never expected her to open up. Maybe she’d just been looking for an opportunity to speak. 

“When the drugs started… I couldn’t believe it. My beautiful little boy, taking drugs? Wasting all that talent he was born with?” She says, choking up. “I wanted to slap him. What was I supposed to do, stand by and watch as we bury another child? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. And I couldn’t even tell him that! Mycroft and Rudy were so adamant about Eurus.”

John moves uncomfortably in his seat, his heart aching as he finally understands that difficult period in their lives.

“It was William who chased him around at first, tried to talk sense into him. I refused to see my boy lying in a gutter, that’s what I told William back then. He never listened to me anyway.” She says, calming down a bit. “And when he stopped listening to William, Mycroft was the last resort. Rudy's been dead by then, but if he weren’t he would have put a stop to all that nonsense, I’m sure.”

She nods in confidence, leaving John more curious than ever about the infamous uncle.

“Mycroft was unplanned.” She says with a naughty smile in return for his shocked gape. “He was the first child, and he was always so sour and stuffy. We assumed it was because he’s the eldest. You spoil them and they become ungrateful. It took us six years to have Sherlock. Mycroft was unexpected so we thought the next child would come along without a hitch, but no. Six years. And we were so happy to have him. He was such a darling little boy. William fell in love with him the moment he saw him. And then Eurus came along a year later. This time we thought it’ll take us another six years but we were surprised again!”

She laughs and John joins her. “You never know with these things.” He says and she nods in agreement. Rosie had been a surprise too, after all.

“Oh, William was so happy to have Eurus. _A girl_. He’d wanted a little girl so badly, and there she was. The apple of his eye - never left his sight. She was perfect. So bright, right from the get-go. He used to stay up at night worried about having to give her hand on her wedding one day.” 

John’s heart squeezes in sympathy at the thought. _Oh god_ . He thinks and adds another item to his endless Rosie-worries list. _I never even thought about that._

“And then...” She says and her voice breaks as memories of Eurus come up. “He was a wonderful man, always. But the day we were told Eurus died, the light in his eyes had gone. He was never the same again.”

“I’m so sorry.” John says, shaking his head.

“And I…” She continues. “For many years after that, I wasn’t… I wasn’t present. It must have felt like living with a ghost of a mother for Sherlock. It’s horrible, I know. It’s unfair when you have other children to raise. But they insisted on keeping Eurus a secret and it absolutely tore me apart.”

“I know the feeling.” John says. “Feeling as if you’re nothing but a ghost. Like you’re letting your child down. That’s exactly how I felt after Mary died.”

His confession increases her tears and they both need a minute after that.

“I failed him as his mother.” She says and John looks away with pain. He’s not one to judge her, but from everything he’d seen so far she’s not so far from the truth. “But not because I didn’t love him. I did. I still do. It was just too much…”

John clears his throat in uncomfortable sympathy.

“I imagine nothing can be fixed now. We’re both too old and too stubborn. But now that Will is gone… he was the one who kept us all together. And I… I might be gone any day now myself. It breaks my heart thinking my boy will never really know how sorry I am. How much I really do love him.”

John nods, finally understanding Sherlock’s words at the hospital a few days ago.

 _Mummy never sees anything_ , he said. That’s not true, is it? She saw everything, she was just so lost in her own grief to do anything about it.

“Will liked you.” She says with a sad smile, trying to change the atmosphere.

“He barely knew me.” John says.

“We read your blog. Every single case.” 

“Really?” John says and laughs when she nods enthusiastically.

“Sherlock absolutely forbade him from posting comments.” She says and John snorts. _Typical._ “But he’d read every post again and again and then call Sherlock to tell him how clever he was. I’m sure Sherlock just tuned him out but Will was so proud. He’d always tell him you’re a good lad, that we’re all lucky he has a live-in doctor.”

“What did he do for a living?” John asks, realizing he never really knew.

“He was a physicist at heart.” She says. “He used to say it was his greatest love, right after me.”

“Like you.” John says.

“That’s how we met. We graduated together, same year.” She says. “His dream was teaching. There were talks about moving to Cornell for his PhD. Can you imagine my boys growing up Americans?”

John laughs at the mere thought, shaking his head in wonder.

“But then Myc came along and well, Will was always a very practical man, and he wanted to earn much better than physics will ever offer him. So we settled down. He became a solicitor. Worked on Her Majesty’s service.”

John raises his brows in question.

“Quite confidential, I’m afraid. Not at liberty to say.”

“Ah well, that explains _Mycroft_.” John says.

“Only to a certain extent.” She jokes again. 

John finds every joke at Mycroft’s expense simply delightful.

“Will rather hoped Sherlock might follow suit, just like Mycroft.” She says. “What with that brilliant brain of his. He never imagined he might branch out like that.”

“Yeah.” John says, not for the first time wondering about the Holmes’ opinions about Sherlock’s choice of career. “I can imagine.”

She exhales before she speaks again, sending a probing glance.

“I think Will thought the two of you were…” She says, cautious.

“Oh.” John says and looks away, because isn’t that the most common and most frustratingly misleading assumption about the two of them. “No. We… No.”

He shakes his head in frustration and locks eyes with her. She’s just as sharp as her son and she reads him like an open book.

He has a question, though he knows Sherlock would be horrified. 

He can’t help himself.

“I shouldn’t be asking you this.” He says and lifts his eyes expectantly, hoping that she understands what he’s trying to ask. “Did he ever..”

“I rather hoped you’d be the one to tell me.” She shakes her head sadly. “If there was ever anyone, anything, he never told us.”

 _So William knew about Amit and never told her,_ John thinks. _Interesting._

"Will had assumed about you two, but I have to be honest with you, John.” She continues. “I was rather relieved at first when Mary came along. I’m… old fashioned, I suppose. It was hard for me to think of Sherlock that way.”

“I see.” John says, his face souring. Just what Sherlock needed on top of everything else; a dab of homophobia.

“But Will berated me over it. Wouldn’t hear of it. He said, ‘There’s finally someone who sees the boy for who he really is, does it really matter if it’s a man or a woman?'. It took me a while but I came to terms with it, I suppose. After everything we’ve been through. Eurus, the drugs. He almost died so many times. Is it really that important? I could see what Will was saying. As long as Sherlock was alive and safe I think I would have learned how to... But then Mary...”

She trails off, unsure how to proceed.

“Yeah. Mary was…” John says, feeling the confession coming and unable to stop it. “She was many things. I did love her. She was a life raft. But she was never…”

 _She was never Sherlock._ He finishes the sentence in his head but she reads it loud and clear. 

“Oh, dear.” She says, lowering her eyes to the table.

“Yes.” John mumbles, mostly to himself.

They stare at the table for a long time, both holding back their questions, their answers, their fears.

Deep inside he was hoping that she’ll hold the answers to all his Sherlock questions; that she, the one who brought him to this world, will know her son’s heart like no one else.

She pats his hand sympathetically.

“I wish I could give you some sage advice about that.” She apologizes, evidently capable of reading minds. “I’m not sure I know him any better than you do.”

He nods, lost in thought. She stands up to put the kettle on again. 

“So, the Parashars?” He clears his throat and asks. “I think I’ll go and find them, bring them back. Lots of preparations for later.” 

He hopes this is as good an excuse as any. He has a sudden urge to see Sherlock, to have him by his side.

“Not really. Everything you bought is premade. Thank you for that, by the way.” She says. “They’re ten minutes away, big green cottage. You can’t miss it.”

“Right. Thank you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Oh, I think we’ve earned moving to a first name basis, wouldn’t you agree?”

He smiles, surprised.

“It’s Margaret from now on.” She commands him with an earnest smile.

* * *

John leaves the house and heads towards the general direction of the Parashars’ home. He’s happy for the fresh air. The unexpectedly honest conversation with Mrs. Holmes left him thoughtful and bothered. There is so much to unpack in everything she’d just told him.

So Sherlock wasn’t being dramatic ( _imagine that_ ). 

His mother, though she really is a warm, wonderful woman, was indeed distant and sometimes even cool. She was obviously barely holding on herself after Eurus was announced dead. Sherlock, young and unaware, suffered from her emotional absence.

She’s not innocent. He thinks about the words she said yesterday; berating him for not visiting enough. Why would he visit if that is how he’s greeted when he does? But that disconnect is a result of years of miscommunication. By this point, anything they choose to say to each other is the wrong thing. 

Mycroft’s closeness and even downright obsession towards Sherlock suddenly makes much more sense. Someone had to watch over Sherlock; he’s a handful in his middle-age, John can barely imagine the energies required to safeguard a teenage and young adult Sherlock from himself.

William was there, too. Did he visit him in a rehab facility? Did he lose sleep night after night after Amit died, expecting the same fate for Sherlock?

That’s heartbreaking. Devastating. Every parent’s worst nightmare.

What a man this family had lost, he realizes and shakes his head to himself. What a terrible loss for Sherlock; losing a grounding anchor in the midst of the raging sea that is this family. Who will ever be able to make it up to him? Of course there’s Mycroft, but Sherlock’ always resented him. He’s the brother, and a brother is very different from a parent.

How will Sherlock deal with this loss? 

Grief takes time to take hold. John knows this very well. It grows slowly, slowly. It creeps up on you like vines on an old, abandoned house. You think you’re alright and then one day you wake up and nothing seems right; the world seems suffocating and frightening. It’s that day that John worries about.

They’re still recovering from Mary’s death, the two of them. Still figuring out how their lives together look now. Will they survive another loss?

And what about William’s… assumptions? He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Everyone assumed that about them. But what if…? William knew Sherlock. He knew his son’s heart, didn’t he? So does that mean…?

He catches the wishful thought and cuts it short. He shouldn’t get his own hopes up. William wasn’t all-seeing. Mrs. Holmes merely suggested that he assumed, not necessarily that he knew anything for sure.

Looking ahead he notices the big, green cottage Mrs. Holmes had mentioned. Rosie’s pushchair is standing on the front porch. This is the right place, then. It looks cosy, well taken care of. There are silly looking garden-gnomes and very minimal Christmas decorations.

John walks over slowly, unsure of what to expect. Sherlock and Rosie had been gone for a while. Maybe they took a long walk and ended up here, maybe this was the original destination. He can’t be sure.

Suddenly he spots them. A big window gives him a clear view of the kitchen. He sees Priya, her back turned to the window. She’s filling up the kettle, presumably for tea.

At the kitchen table, he sees an older woman, and he assumes she’s Priya’s mother. She sits next to Sherlock, Rosie in his lap chewing on something biscuit-like. Priya’s mother leans towards Sherlock, smiling brightly at him as they turn the pages of a book, or maybe a photo album.

Sherlock’s wearing his shy smile as he flips through pages, his body language open but hesitant. It’s as if he recognizes the homey environment he’d stepped into, unsure how to behave around this kind-hearted normalcy.

John’s heart expands at the sight of a relaxed, evidently happy Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes mentioned he used to escape to this house. It was a safe haven for him and John suddenly realizes why. 

There are smiles, and books and openness. Mrs. Parashar lost a son and a husband yet she welcomed Sherlock unannounced in open arms on Christmas Eve. 

Her daughter couldn’t find the man of her dreams and chose to be a single mother. Her mother clearly loves her enough to take her in and help in raising her grandchild.

That’s the heartbreaking truth about bereaved families; some fall apart at the seams, some rise up like a phoenix. The Holmeses seem to have drawn the short straw in that sense. 

John’s smile widens with longing when Sherlock says something and Mrs. Parashar laughs, her head falling back with mirth as she caresses Sherlock’s shoulder. The man himself looks at her with delighted disbelief, unable to hide his smile. 

Priya turns around and notices John watching them. She smiles brightly and waves hello, signalling him to join them. His first instinct is to move towards the door. Then he catches another glimpse of Sherlock and decides not to.

He waves back with a smile and shakes his gently, amiably.

 _Let him have this._ He thinks. _Sherlock came here alone, looking for something he clearly needed. He found it._

John wants him to enjoy it. Priya smiles back and nods, understanding. 

He puts his hands in his pockets, turning away hesitantly. He’s never comfortable leaving Sherlock behind, but this time he’s going to.

 _It’s alright._ He tells himself. _He’ll come back when he’s ready._

Walking back to the Holmes house he takes his phone out and texts Harry, wishing her a Merry Christmas, sharing the news about Sherlock’s father. He puts the phone back in his pocket when she doesn’t respond.

He’s awakened from his thoughts when his phone pings, expecting to find a reply from his sister. It turns out to be an email sent to his blog’s email account.

His heart stops when he reads it.

_"Dear Mr. Watson and Mr. Holmes,_

_My name is Erica Ryan and I’m the Chairwoman of Women’s Solace. We’re an organization that runs refuge houses for female domestic abuse victims all across the UK._

_I’m writing to you this morning, on Christmas Eve, overwhelmed with a most generous donation we received on your behalf for the sum of £30,000 from a donor who wishes to remain anonymous._

_The donor mentioned that you’d requested the donation is made in memory of Mrs. Jean Watson and her mother-in-law, Mrs. Catherine Watson._

_We’ll be using the funds to renovate our central London shelter, and it’ll be our honour to dedicate the shelter to Mrs. Jean Watson and Mrs. Catherine Watson with a commemorative plaque._

_I cannot express our thanks over this incredibly generous donation made to our foundation. I can absolutely assure you every penny will go on making residents' lives better._

_Wishing the warmest holiday wishes to you and your loved ones,_

_E. Ryan"_

John has to sit on a nearby rock as he reads the letter over and over again, his heart beating furiously.

He’d had his doubts about his significance to Sherlock this past year. No, he had his doubts since the day he met the man. But this - this right here is exactly why Sherlock Holmes is the man John could never get over, could never leave behind.

Maybe Sherlock doesn’t ‘do’ romantic love after all. Maybe he will never have him the way he wishes.

But this _is_ love. This is caring. And even if that’s all he ever gets from Sherlock, he’s a very lucky man.

* * *

“James, hi.” John says hesitantly as he speaks to the voicemail. He didn’t know voicemails still existed. “Hi, it’s John. John Watson. I’m... I’m not sure what to say, how to thank you. I… I just saw the email from Women’s Solace. That was incredibly generous, I’m not sure I deserve it.”

He stops and shakes his head, unsure of how to proceed.

“Err. Sherlock’s father died, unfortunately. We’re spending the holiday with his family. I hope you’re doing alright. You’re probably still… processing, but my offer still stands. I’ve been through some difficult holidays myself. Let us know if you need anything. Anything at all. So, that’s it. Thank you, again. It’ll be great if you call back, I’d like to thank you in person, as it were. Alright, bye for now.”

* * *

When John returns to the Holmes house he finds Mrs. Holmes in the midst of baking.

“Tea?” She asks.

“Can I help with anything?” John asks in return and she nods appreciatively. He’s given a few tasks he fulfils gladly, happy for the chance to get lost in some mundane tasks.The backdoor to the house opens and brings the winter with it. It also brings Rosie’s voice, her laughter filling the room.

“There you are.” Mrs. Holmes says. “It’s been terribly quiet here without you.”

“Did you have fun, love?” John picks Rosie up and kisses her hair.

“Walph ate my biscuit.” Rosie complains.

“What’s that?”

“Walph. Ate. My. Biscuit.” She repeats as if he’s an idiot.

John looks to Sherlock for clarification.

“Priya’s cat. Ralph.” Sherlock explains.

“Ah.” John says and smiles at her. “Did Priya give you another biscuit?”

“Priya gave her three.” Sherlock mumbles, the guilt evident in his voice. John gasps, calculating the implication on her nap.

“I want a cat, Daddy.”

“Oh, we can’t have a cat, love.” John puts on his most apologetic frown. “Daddy’s allergic.”

He catches Sherlock’s gasp at the lie.

_Daddy is allergic to the idea of cats, love. Daddy hates cats._

“Awwww!” She whines at the refusal, disappointed.

“How about another biscuit, dear?” Mrs. Holmes jumps to the rescue. It’s far too much sugar for her but it’s Christmas and, well, he really does hate cats. She’s never going to have one. He supposes a biscuit is a fair trade.

John turns his attention to Sherlock. He’s holding three textbooks John assumes he was sent home with by the Parashars.

“What’s that?” He asks.

“Mira’s latest publications.” 

“Is that Priya’s mother?” John asks and Sherlock nods. “How was it?”

“They send their condolences.” Sherlock says, aiming the words at his mother then looks out the window. John walks over to him, Rosie in his arms. He lays a hand on his shoulder.

“You alright?” He asks quietly, out of Mrs. Holmes’ earshot.

Sherlock nods. “It was… good.”

“Yeah? Good.” He clears his throat. “I... saw the email. I don’t know what to say.”

Sherlock lowers his eyes. “She deserved it, John.” He says. “You deserve it.”

John can’t help but smile, his feelings written clearly all over his face. He’s rewarded with an honest, heart-melting grin in return. Their eyes and their smiles linger and for a long, long moment they’re lost in their own bubble.

* * *

Christmas lunch is a small, subdued affair. They have enough food to go around and Rosie is entertaining as always but there’s tension all around; Sherlock’s never really comfortable around his mother, Mycroft is either busy on his phone or ignoring John (as ordered) and John is… he’s restless.

His heart goes out to Sherlock.

He wants a break, both for him and for Sherlock. James’ case wasn’t as challenging as other cases were; frankly, if not for the hospital visits Sherlock would have solved it in half the time he actually did. 

But James’ presence created some tension. John’s confessions rattled them both. Losing his father is obviously taking a toll on Sherlock.

He’s still distracted when they open their presents ( _“If it’s good enough for The Queen it’s good enough for us._ ” Mycroft says snobbishly as Sherlock rolls his eyes.)

John’s ears finally perk with interest when Mrs. Holmes mentions a nearby light trail.

“There’s a light trail?” John asks.

“Yes, they have one every year in Combe Hall.” She says. “It’s lovely.”

“Is it far?” John asks.

“No.” She replies. “Sherlock used to love it.”

“Yeah?” John turns to look at Sherlock.

“We should go.” Sherlock says, catching John by surprise. 

“I’ve never been to one.” He says happily. “Oh. What about Rosie?”

“I can watch over her.” Mrs. Holmes offers. “I did raise my share of kids, you know. Put her cot in my room.”

“Brilliant.” John says. “Thank you, Mrs. Holmes.”

She sends him a reproaching glance.

“Margaret.” He corrects himself as Mycroft turns to look quickly, suspicious of this new development.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

* * *

Sherlock parks the car as John awaits him patiently. The other man joins him at the start of the light trail. It’s a circular oasis of bright flashing lights surrounding a small hill with an old manor in its centre. John assumes this is the aforementioned Combe Hall.

They tread the first stretch of the trail in companionable silence. The sounds of gravel and distant music are all they hear for now, as they both tuck their hands in their coats.

The trail display begins subtly enough with fairy lights hanging over ancient trees. As they walk on John notices a small brook to their left; [ it is lit with beautiful, flower-shaped floating lights ](https://media.timeout.com/images/105323441/750/422/image.jpg).

“This is nice.” John says.

Sherlock, walking ahead of him with his head bent towards the floor, turns to smile at him.

Eventually, they catch up with the very small crowd of visitors. Seeing as this is Christmas Eve the trail isn’t as packed as it might have been over the past few days. They’re all couples, John notices. Walking together side by side, holding hands or hugging waists, speaking quietly. Probably parents exhausted from the company of their kids who needed someplace to escape.

John tries to distract himself from the feeling of butterflies fluttering around his body when his mind chirps uninvited.

_Is this a date?_

He shakes his head at the juvenile thought.

_It’s nice, whatever it is._

“You spoke to Mummy.” Sherlock says as they approach the blinding glare of a tall light tunnel, waking John from his reverie.

“Yes. Although to be fair, she did most of the talking.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock hums. “I deny everything.”

John snorts, amused.

“I’m sure you do.” He knows Sherlock is slightly uncomfortable about it, but he’s thankful for the conversation he and Mrs. Holmes had earlier. She knew what she was doing by talking so openly with John; she was sending a message. He wasn’t about to deny her that.

“The things she must have told you.” Sherlock says, prodding.

“That’s exactly what she said about you.” John sends a cursory smile. He can’t see Sherlock’s face. The other man is walking two steps ahead of John in an attempt to conceal his face.

“No, she mostly spoke about your father and her.” John continues. “About raising the three of you.”

“Parenting advice? Really?” Sherlock scoffs.

“No, not really.” John says, aching to unarm Sherlock from years worth of derision towards his frankly sorrowful mother. “I take the stuff she told me mostly as a… cautionary tale, I suppose. To try and not make the same mistakes she’d admitted to.”

Sherlock continues walking in silence, but John senses his attention. He’s listening intently.

“I’m not dismissing how it must have felt for you, growing up. Not at all.” John continues. “But I’d been down that road when Mary died. I looked at Rosie and I felt nothing for her. I felt like a ghost. Thank god she was too young to remember but if it wasn’t for-- I’m not sure I would be a much better parent today.”

“I think you’re doing yourself a disservice, John.” Sherlock says. 

“Maybe. But her life... She had a difficult life, Sherlock. You all did, but...” John continues. “Losing a child, being expected to hide it from you all these years…”

“There was much more to that than Eurus, John.” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, I know. There’s also the dreadful business of being a parent and never ever getting it right, no matter what.”

John’s brutally honest words leave Sherlock wordless.

“Can you imagine Rosie all grown up, Sherlock? A teenager?” He shakes his head at the thought. “Christ, I’m so scared sometimes. I’m going to fail her in so many ways, simply by virtue of being her father. And that’s before we even get into… _Mary_. You know. What the hell am I going to tell her about that?”

“Maybe you _should_ get her that cat.” Sherlock teases.

“ _No._ ” John says, horrified. “I’m not suffering over some asshole cat just because Mary thought political assassination was a legitimate career path.”

Sherlock’s beautiful baritone giggle fills the air and John’s heart jumps with joy. 

“I guess my point is…” John considers the words. “I can’t judge her. And I think now, after your father’s death… I think she’d like a second chance. Or at least the opportunity to try and win a second chance from you. A fresh start, you know.”

John picks up his pace, wanting to be closer to Sherlock. He huddles next to him, absorbing his warmth. Their shoulders brush as they walk; they’re so close. John’s voice is low and Sherlock leans closer to listen.

You gave me a second chance.” He says softly. “And a third, and a fourth and god knows how many more. I know you have it in you. You’re a sensible man; you went and said goodbye to your father after all. Aren’t you happy that you did?”

Sherlock nods.

“Then think about it. It probably won’t change much, but at least it’ll give her some sense of relief. No more regrets, you know. Some peace.”

Sherlock considers John’s words for a long moment before speaking again.

“What about my peace, John?” Sherlock says and swallows.

John is stumped by the sentiment and the fact that he has no idea how to respond to that. He turns to look at Sherlock, trying to read his facial expression.

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” He dares to ask. “What will bring you some peace?”

Sherlock picks up his pace, walking away. John shakes his head, disappointed when Sherlock doesn’t answer.

They slow down as they reach a [ long, well-lit bridge ](https://flittabus.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/xBlenheim-Palace-Bridge-in-lights-300x225.jpg.pagespeed.ic.1R5fDhcbUB.jpg). They stop at its centre and turn to rest their elbows against the cold stone as they look into the dark water.

“Sherlock?” John tries again. 

He’s so tired of being left out. He’s been so honest this past week, wearing his heart on his sleeve. After everything they’ve been through, doesn’t he deserve some answers of his own?

Frustrated and rejected, he exhales loudly and turns to move from the bridge. “Maybe we should go back.” He mumbles as he begins walking away.

His word cause Sherlock to close his eyes and clear his throat.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice cracks.

John stops and goes back to Sherlock’s side.

“When we were at the park a few days ago…” Sherlock speaks to the babbling rivulet. “You said you know I never expected this. Having you around as a widower, having Rosie.”

John nods, encouraging him to go on.

“It’s true, I never did.” Sherlock says. “It was never supposed to be me. I never expected that eventuality. It was always supposed to be Mary.”

“What does that mean?” He asks despite being quite sure he doesn’t want an answer.

It’s been a long while since they last spoke about Mary; there’s a reason for that. The memories are still painful and John still resents both of them. He resents her for trying to break them apart even after she died. He resents Sherlock for listening to her, treating her poisonous posthumous words as directives.

“Mary was supposed to win.” Sherlock says and the blood in John’s veins freezes. He knew it. He knew that the other man was about to confess something that will leave John’s heart aching and his mind dizzy. “She was supposed to…”

“Sherlock…” John says, his tone a stern warning.

“No matter how much I thought it over, the future only made sense if I… If she wins. You get to have a wife and a baby and live the life you’ve always wanted. Everything I did… Magnussen, Ajay, that second mission to Eastern Europe-”

“Sherlock, stop-” John says coldly, closing his eyes in pain.

“At some point, in some way, I was supposed to be taken out of the equation and you were supposed to move on with your life. That was the plan.”

John raises murderous eyes at Sherlock.

“ _That_ was the plan?” John grits through his teeth. “You _planned_ that?”

“She would have won anyway, John. She would have gotten what she wanted no matter what. It wasn’t worth the… battle.”

“You mean _I_ wasn’t worth the battle.” 

“No, John… I…” Sherlock shakes his head. He thinks for a long minute, considering his next words. “I told you once that by saving me she conferred a value-”

“Yes, I remember.” John cuts him off shortly as he remembers those hateful words. “She saved your life and you’re in her debt.”

“No.” Sherlock says, frustrated from being misunderstood. “I didn’t expect any of this. Having you, having Rosie… All to my… All to myself. I planned for the end of the world and then the end never came. We had an unspoken agreement, she and I. How can I ever hope to give you everything you’d lost when she died?”

John stares at Sherlock for a long time after he stops speaking, his ears ringing. 

The quiet, scenic view surrounding them is suddenly the most off-putting juxtaposition to the storm raging inside him. 

“What did I lose exactly, when she died? Hmm?” John asks with his palms digging into his eyes. “A lying, runaway wife? A stranger I was minutes away from leaving anyway before she left to die?”

“Rosie lost her mother, John.”

“Yes, she did. I won’t belittle that. But let’s not forget her mother died immediately after returning from a months’ long leave of absence. She would have left again, Sherlock. She was never going to stay.”

“John…”

“I can’t… How am I supposed to sleep at night, knowing you’ve been carrying this inside you all this time?” John asks, the anger still not leaving his system. “I wish you’d have told me...”

“I did tell you.” Sherlock says, turning pleading eyes at him.

 _Oh_ . John realizes, thrown back to the conversation on Sherlock’s birthday. _He actually_ did _tell you this time but you didn’t see, did you? You were too busy feeling guilty, feeling sorry for yourself._

How many times had he underestimated the depth of Sherlock’s feelings? The intensity of his love and loyalty? _‘Better me than you.’_ Didn’t Sherlock tell him that only a few days ago? 

Their cruel reality has always been that John loves Sherlock so intensely, needs him so much - that on the rare occasion Sherlock did bare his heart John had never been able to stand it. He’d shut off, deflect in fear of being unable to handle it.

How many lost conversations do they have in their past due to his own cowardice?

“Right.” John says, his anger subsiding. “I’m an idiot, as always. I’m sorry. I really am, Sherlock.”

They both opt for silence as another couple slowly passes behind them. John squares his shoulders, finding every bit of strength in his body he can possibly muster. Because... in his own bungling way, Sherlock just confessed something important.

“But you do… want us. Rosie and me. Now that it’s all said and done.”

“Of course I do, John.” He half-whispers. “I.. I don’t deserve it-”

“No.” John cuts him off. “Enough with this... with the self-flogging. I don't want to hear any more of what you’re not. Tell me what you _are_ . Tell me what you _do_ want, for once.”

Sherlock looks away.

“I know it’s hard... for me, too.” John assures him. “But we need to do this. We need to be… honest with each other, for once. What do you want, Sherlock?” 

“Alright.” John turns his body to look at Sherlock when he doesn’t answer, moving closer. “For the sake of… no more regrets, I suppose. I’m going to ask you something, Sherlock, and... Don’t take it the wrong way when I do. And please be honest. I can take it, whatever it is. I just need to know.”

John pauses, considering his words.

“Have you ever…” He starts and looks at Sherlock’s tightly wounded hands. Sherlock knows what’s coming, he realizes. He’s just as nervous. “Have you ever looked at me and thought… have you ever wanted this to be something more?”

Sherlock’s head turns swiftly towards John, for a split second - nothing more. Then he turns his head away again and _laughs_. 

A bitter, painful, heartbreaking laughter that curdles John’s blood.

His brain is silent for ten full seconds. Then.. _Oh god._ He thinks, the meaning of that laughter hitting him hard. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

John turns around swiftly, resting his back against the bridge’s railing. His palms cover his eyes in frustration again.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” 

“I didn’t always know, John.” Sherlock confesses, his voice cold and worried. “It was too late by the time I did.”

“Oh god.” John says again. “When?” He asks, choking on his question.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks bitterly.

“You could have said something...” John begs and Sherlock pierces him with his brilliant eyes.

“Could I have?” He asks, passing the blame back to John. A blame John realizes he utterly deserves. Because what would he have done if Sherlock confessed his feeling once Mary was in the picture? He would have panicked, wouldn’t he? He would have been torn, and Mary certainly wouldn’t have made their lives easier.

“Oh my god.” John says, rolling his eyes in grudging disbelief at his own stupidity.

“You were always the brave one, John. I rather hoped you’d be the one to take the first step when you were ready.” 

_The brave one._ He laughs bitterly at the mere suggestion.

“Some kind of brave I am.” John berates himself. “We wouldn’t be here if I was, would we?”

“Wrong.” Sherlock says and gestures towards the village. “We wouldn’t be here now if you weren’t.”

John sighs, and this time Sherlock joins him.

“So all this time you...” John says. “You wanted and you… I made you the best man at our wedding. And you _agreed_..”

“She’d won, John.”

John grinds his teeth loudly.

“Don’t ever say that again, Sherlock.” His anger flares up again. “I’m serious. Don’t _ever._ say. that.”

“John...”

“This little game the two of you played. This twisted little...” He snarls. “No one had won, Sherlock, can’t you see? We all _lost_.”

“I know.” Sherlock croaks, admitting defeat. “I know. I didn’t know what else to do. She-”

“I don’t want to hear about Mary right now. Just answer my question. All this time? You…?”

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “I have, for a long time. But I realized that even if you do too, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I don’t care that you don’t know. I wouldn’t have.” John says. “I only ever needed to know that you wanted to. That you do… feelings. We’d have figured it out.”

John watches Sherlock pressing his lips together, attempting to hide the trembling.

How is he supposed to be happy now, knowing everything Sherlock had sacrificed for him? His freedom, his body, his heart? How can he ever begin repaying Sherlock for all he’d done for him?

 _This should be a happy moment_! he wants to yell at him. 

Sherlock’s confession about his and Mary’s cold war over his heart turned this conversation into a battle zone instead of a celebration.

Love isn’t war. It _can_ be, with the wrong person. But they’re right for each other, aren’t they? This is supposed to be their moment of victory. Did Mary somehow win, after all?

Sherlock senses John’s frustration and shuffles his legs. John exhales loudly, his heart heavy.

“Come on.” John says, resigned. “Let’s go back. I need... I need to think.”

They walk back in silence, drive back in silence, get ready for sleep in silence.

John’s heart falls when Sherlock retires to the sitting room instead of the bedroom. Frustrated and defeated, he takes the stairs and crawls into bed.

* * *

John, of course, doesn’t sleep. How can he, feeling the way he does and knowing the man he loves feels the same downstairs. The hours move frustratingly slowly, but he doesn’t get up. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway. 

Instead he wallows, stews in his own misery.

He barely drifts into that weird phase between wake and sleep before he hears footsteps. 

Sherlock opens the door quietly, hesitantly. He looks inside and awaits John’s response. Just like the previous night, John simply raises the duvet in invitation and Sherlock crawls in. This time he doesn’t turn his back to John. He lies stiffly on his back, clutching the sheets worriedly.

“You asked for honesty.” Sherlock speaks quietly. “I feel like I did something wrong. You’re upset.”

John covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow and releases a long, suffering sigh. He realizes he’s been holding his breath since the minute they turned to leave the light trail.

“I’m not upset, Sherlock.” He says. “I feel… robbed.”

“Robbed?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“Yes, robbed. From having this. Having us. We could have had this a long time ago.”

“I don’t know what to say to that, John.” Sherlock says.

This time it’s John who lets out a bitter laughter. He closes his eyes in frustration. 

He wants to fix this. He needs to fix this. A few hours ago he told Sherlock that it didn’t matter that Sherlock didn’t know how to do this. But right now it does, because John is so lost and so confused and he doesn’t know what to do next. They’re almost there, they’re on the precipice and suddenly John realizes he’s terrified.

He hears Sherlock’s worried, restless breaths as he prepares to speak. “Do you love me, John?” Sherlock asks grimly.

John chuckles bitterly yet again.

“More than you could possibly imagine, you idiot.” He says. “Look at me. You said I was brave. I finally have you here by my side. Finally have you here in bed and I…”

John clears his throat when he catches on to those last words.

“I’m being presumptuous. Sorry.”

Sherlock is silent for a long moment. John begins to wonder whether they’ve fallen into another helpless impasse when he hears the rustle of sheets.

Sherlock’s soft palm touches his forearm.

He raises John’s arm, removes it from his face where it’s been covering John’s eyes. John opens them and finds the most glorious pair of eyes he’d ever seen looking straight into his. His breath catches and his mouth dries when he reads the questions those eyes are asking.

Sherlock is on his side, not touching John’s body. He’s far away, too far away, but John is too captivated to take over the situation. He lets Sherlock do as he wishes.

Sherlock moves his hand again and gently cups John’s cheek. John closes his eyes in relief at the soft, hesitant touch. 

_Yes._ John thinks and nods to Sherlock, encouraging him. A moment later John sighs in pain; Sherlock’s cheek is rubbing against his own in search of warmth, of reciprocated tenderness. 

_How long has it been since you’ve let anyone touch you like that?_ John wants to ask him. W _hy would you hide this side of you for so long?_ _Why would you hide it from me? We could have had this all this time,_ he remembers again with a whimper.

Eventually, John’s brain catches on. Sherlock is trying to speak wordlessly to him. John isn’t about to let this opportunity pass. He turns from his back to his side, mirroring Sherlock’s position. He sends a gentle hand to cup Sherlock’s own cheek, rubbing it with his thumb.

They stare at each other, overwhelmed and disbelieving, for a long moment.

He rubs Sherlock’s nose with his, taking his fill of the man’s smell. He knows this scent so well; he’d know the man in his sleep based on it alone. It’s an intoxicating mixture now that he’s allowed to take in a lungful, that he no longer has to hide how much he enjoys it.

This time around it’s Sherlock who’s frozen. When Sherlock was the one doing the touching his body was far away. John is now snuggled closely to Sherlock’s tense body.

“Alright?” He asks.

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes.

“Do you want to stop?”

Sherlock shakes his head quickly.

 _Just overwhelmed, then_.

He lowers his hand to grab Sherlock’s palm and places it on his own waist, urging him to touch him back.

“Can you…” He pleads. “You can touch me, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock hesitantly grabs onto his waist and John moves closer still. Encouraged, Sherlock envelopes himself around John’s body. 

And finally, _finally_ , the dam opens. John closes his eyes in desperation as he’s swept into a wave of emotions so turbulent that he’s sure he might drown. His closed eyes don't stop vertigo from hitting him when their bodies are finally aligned and touch head to toe.

“Oh god, Sherlock.” John whispers, more to himself than to anyone else; a lifetime of pain and agony leave his body in a split second. “Oh god.” He says again as Sherlock moves closer, encouraged by John’s words. Sherlock’s body is long and soft and so, so warm. John’s senses are bombarded with his sounds, his smell, his heart thumping quickly against John’s. 

They rock into each once, attempting to get even closer. John’s fingers tighten painfully around Sherlock’s body as he inhales the scents emanating from the spot where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulders.

If John thought he’d ever known the meaning of calm, of belonging, of feeling connected to this world, he’d been wrong. 

Everything he’d ever experienced in his life had been a pretence, a cheap substitute, he realizes the second Sherlock places his nose in the crook of his neck.

“John.” Sherlock says and burrows further into their embrace.

“Jesus. Yes, I know. Me too.” He assures him. He whimpers when he feels a small, tentative kiss placed on his neck. “Oh god.” He whispers again, lightheaded with the realization that Sherlock is asking for more. “Do it again.”

Sherlock kisses his neck again, then again.

“Yes, Yes. More.” He begs stupidly and they begin to rock into each other, harder and harder. Sherlock spreads kisses on his neck, on his jaw. He grabs John's hair gently and tilts his head to lick a spot right below his ear.

“Fuck.” He says hurriedly, breathless when he realizes they’re both hard. “Look at me, Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat. He crashes his lips to John’s; the kisses are hungry and fierce and they cling to each other as if their lives depend on it. 

John moves his knee in between Sherlock’s instinctively, increasing the pressure on Sherlock’s cock.

“Uh.” Sherlock gasps, surprised by the sensation. “More.” His fingers tighten around John’s waist as John rubs his thigh back and forth, gently. “More…” Sherlock’s head falls backward, dizzy with sensation.

"Fuck." _Yes, beautiful. Anything. Everything._ John thinks desperately when he sees the effect his actions have on the other man. He moves them so John lays half his body on Sherlock, watching his face as they grind and rut. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his hands grab John’s waist tightly, dizzy with the sensation.

John has to close his eyes; the sounds Sherlock is making are pushing him closer and closer to the edge. He’s almost undone by the sight of Sherlock licking his lips and throwing his head back. He knows he won’t be able to take it much longer; he shoves his hand down the back of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and pants, squeezing his arse tightly.

The feeling of Sherlock’s skin in his hands does John in; he has to bite Sherlock’s shoulder to keep himself from screaming as his cock pulses with the strength of his orgasm. 

John barely stifles a giggle when the realization that he just came in his pants hits him. It takes him a moment to realize that Sherlock is still hard and rutting, his head buried in John’s shoulder.

“You didn’t…?” John panics. _That never happened before._ He feels Sherlock burrowing further into his neck, shaking his head in response.

“Do you..” He stutters. He’d never been more scared in his life. “Was it not-”

“Too many… too many thoughts.” Sherlock admits with a whisper. 

_He’s nervous,_ John realizes.

John bites his lip, considering a million ways this can go wrong. He pats Sherlock’s head gently, hoping to transmit just how nervous he is himself.

“Do you want to?” He asks. _Can’t be too careful_. He feels Sherlock nodding. “Show me.”

Sherlock’s body freezes for a second. Then, John realizes blessedly, he grabs John’s palm and places it on his cock through his pyjama bottoms. John catches on quickly, his body buzzing with the sensation. He doesn’t lose a second before he stuffs his hand down Sherlock’s body, grabbing his erection.

“ _Fuck._ ” John whispers, the sensation electrifying his body. He wets his own palm quickly, though he feels the moisture of pre-cum already. His first pull is hesitant, gentle; he finds his courage when Sherlock’s back arches at the sensation, keening. John presses their foreheads together, spreading sloppy kisses on Sherlock’s face. He can see the internal battle inside Sherlock’s head; his body’s need for relief fighting with his always-busy brain.

“Open your eyes.” He whispers between kisses. He smiles at Sherlock when he does. “Look at me. Look at us. Come for me.”

Sherlock looks at him, hesitant.

“Let me do this for you.” John murmurs. “Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll back in guarded pleasure. 

“Yes, love. Just like that.” He pleads and licks a soft spot on his neck. “That’s beautiful. Come for me, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock squirms beneath him, thrusting harder and harder into John’s hand. 

“Beautiful. Beautiful. Look at you. Yes.” John encourages him. He can feel the orgasm building, the rhythm turning erratic; one second Sherlock’s body is moving, the next he covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow as he comes, his entire body a dispersing shockwave.

John gently moves his hand away, kissing Sherlock on his cheek for a long, long moment as the other man comes down from his climax. 

Sherlock covered his eyes as he came, and John is praying that’s not a bad sign. He rubs his nose against Sherlock’s cheek in silent expectation.

Suddenly, finally, Sherlock speaks.

“ _Captain Watson_.” He says mischievously.

“ _Oh_.” John says happily, his spent cock twitching at Sherlock’s suggestive tone. “Well, you know. For Queen and Country.” 

John spreads small kisses over Sherlock’s closed eyes. Sherlock accepts them greedily, silently. His breath catches when Sherlock turns his head for a long, demanding kiss.

“Hmmm.” John hums, dizzy due to what is, unquestionably, one of the best kisses he’s had the pleasure to receive. “We should… we should probably change.”

They get up and change quickly, hurrying to go back to each other’s arms. 

“Please don’t think this performance marks the peak of my abilities.” John says, only half-joking. “I do have some impressive tricks up my sleeve.”

“I’m sure you do.” Sherlock says and burrows in John’s neck again, inhaling John’s scent in.

“I’d like to show you some of them, if you’re amenable.” John continues, his eyes closing slowly.

“I think I might be.” Sherlock says, his eyes closed already.

And they sleep, at home in each other’s arms at last, just like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how scared I was posting this chapter as it contains the first-ever smut scene I ever wrote. I hope I did it justice.


	11. A Great Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a difference a few days make. 

John wakes at 7:30, his brain expecting and noticing the lack of Rosie’s morning babble. He would have panicked if not for the sensation of a tall, limp heat source on his right.

He smiles to himself, the memories of Sherlock’s piercing eyes and hesitant caresses flashing through his eyes like scenes from a movie. He turns to look at Sherlock whose head rests on John’s pillow, his warm breath tickling John’s ear.

 _This is new_ , he realizes as he scans through his mental Sherlock catalogues. Never had he seen such a content, sated Sherlock before. 

He wants to wake him up. He wants to answer his body’s demands. His brain just picked up on the fact that morning sex ( _Morning sex!_ ) is indeed an actual possibility in the near future. But the other man had barely slept in nearly a week, only a few hours here and there, so John throws away the duvet turns to leave the bed.

“John.”

“Go back to sleep.” John whispers.

“Not tired.” Sherlock mumbles.

“Of course you’re...” John says jokingly but protests when Sherlock moves to join him. “No, Sherlock, please. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he follows John around as they change into their day clothes and brush their teeth. 

They pass by Mrs. Holmes' room and hear no sign of anyone awake. Yesterday’s excitement over gifts and cats and biscuits must have done Rosie in.

They descend the steps to the first floor together, fingers brushing hesitantly. They know what they are to each other now, John thinks, but how is he expected to behave in front of Mrs. Holmes? Only yesterday did she confess that she felt uncomfortable at the thought of Sherlock being gay.

And Mycroft. Oh, Mycroft. That’ll be an interesting reaction, John chuckles.

He’ll have to let Sherlock lead the way; this is his family, his turf. He’ll respect however he chooses to behave today.

After puttering around the kitchen without a word, they sit down with cups of tea on the back porch, overlooking the outskirts of the village. It takes a moment for John to notice his hand had travelled to Sherlock’s knee on its own volition. He’s squeezing it as he looks at the other man, fascinated by him as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen him.

A besotted smile escapes him when Sherlock turns to look at him. Sherlock half-smiles in return as he takes a sip of tea, that crooked grin John loves so much.

“Alright?” John asks, scanning Sherlock’s face in an attempt to read his emotions. _No regrets?_ His eyes ask.

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums, satisfied.

“Good.” 

It is good. He has this now and it’s enough. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get. They sit silently together for a while, taking comfort in their new intimacy. It’s Christmas Day, he realizes. He looks at his phone, his mind finally available to think about anything else in the world that isn’t Sherlock Holmes. Harry texted back last night, some silly looking photos attached. 

James never responded; not a missed phone call, not a text, not even an email. John frowns, though he shouldn’t be surprised. James disappeared after John’s wedding as well. He took a hard beating this time. It’ll take him a while to recover.

He’s distracted when two voices travel their way, getting closer and closer. Mrs. Holmes and Rosie are up and they're having a lively chat as they move around the kitchen.

“Oh, I see your father isn’t here yet.” The older woman says. “We don’t have to tell him about this biscuit, do we, dear? Shhh.”

John snorts when he hears Rosie’s conspiratorial “ _Shhhh_ ” travel through the window, delighted at playing along with the deceit.

“I wonder if Sherlock’s up.” Mrs. Holmes says. Her footsteps are getting closer. 

John is floored when Sherlock burrows his head in his neck yet again, just like last night. Whether it’s in defiant expectation of his mother’s reaction or a childish attempt to disappear, John isn’t sure. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He squeezes Sherlock’s knee again in encouragement.

“Oh.” Mrs. Holmes says in surprise as she steps on the porch, Rosie on her hip. She takes their huddled arrangement in and looks between the two of them, clearly deducing.

Mycroft is only two or three steps behind her, his nose buried in his phone. When he raises his eyes he joins his mother in reading the situation, his face inscrutable but for the beginning of a knowing smirk.

John would like to think their reaction means they didn’t hear them last night. That’s the story he’s sticking with right now and probably forever. He smiles at them defiantly, wordlessly.

“Good morning, dear.” Mrs. Holmes says when she regroups.

“Mummy.” Sherlock acknowledges her. “Watson.”

“I have biscuit!” She declares as if she’s Napoleon and she just conquered Belgium.

 _So much for inheriting her mother’s stealthy instincts._ One less thing to worry about, John supposes.

“That’s nice, love.” John says with a smile, taking in the sight of Rosie in Mrs. Holmes’ arms. She looks like she was born to be a grandmother; boisterous, confident, amused by whatever his little girl seems to be doing.

“Oh, thank you dear.” Mrs. Holmes says as Mycroft lays a cup of tea next to her. John has to blink at the gesture; Mycroft just did something for another human being. _What a time to be alive_ , he thinks.

“John.” Mrs. Holmes says, claiming the focus back to her. “Did Sherlock tell you that when he was young we used to make rounds in the village on Christmas Day, handing out my special biscuits? It’s a Vernet tradition.”

“No, he didn’t.” John shakes his head.

“There'd be barely any left by the time Mycroft had his way with them.” She says devilishly. 

John feels more than hears Sherlock’s chuckle near his ear. Mycroft crosses his legs to the other side, exasperated by the entire ordeal.

“I thought perhaps I could take Rosamund with me this year.” She says with a piercing glare. “I’d like to pay a visit to those who sent flowers.”

“Oh, of course.” John says. “That would be lovely.”

“Oh, wonderful.” She says, delighted. “Though I don’t think I can carry all these biscuits by myself anymore. Not as young as I used to be when I had these two running around. And the pushchair is quite uncomfortable.” John feels Sherlock squirming; he drags his head from where it’s been laying, obviously expecting what his mother is about to say next.

“Maybe Sherlock-” Mrs. Holmes begins saying before the man himself lets his suffering be known with a loud exhale.

“I’m not seven anymore, Mummy.” He grunts.

“No, you most certainly are not, but there’s a young lady here who loves having you around. We don’t know each other that well yet and she might get uncomfortable having only me around.”

John has to work hard to hide his smile. He wonders how long she’s been sitting on this plan, or better yet - if it’s unplanned and she’s just that good.

“John.” Sherlock whispers, hoping to be rescued.

“It’s a Vernet tradition.” John says in mock seriousness, shaking his head.

Sherlock’s entire body shrinks in frustrated discontent. John squeezes his knee yet again and he searches for Sherlock’s eyes.

_No more regrets._

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically as he gives in, unaware that his mother is doing the exact same thing behind his back.

“Alright.” He says and picks Rosie up, taking her upstairs for a change of clothes.

“I’d like to give you something, John.” Mrs. Holmes says. She hands him a plain-looking envelope. “For you. Don’t open it now.”

“Thank you.” John smiles.

Mrs. Holmes is waiting by Rosie’s pushchair by the time the other two return. 

“No need for the pushchair, Mummy.” Sherlock says and raises Rosie to his shoulders. He sneaks a suffering glance at John as he does so. John only smiles warmly back in return.

_Give her a chance._

John sips his tea as he watches them walk away. He gasps quietly as Mrs. Holmes misses a step and Sherlock balances her quickly and efficiently.

His heart expands when Sherlock offers her his arm. He smiles yet again when she takes it.

“I see congratulations are finally in order.” Mycroft says nonchalantly as he sips his tea. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh, that’s not true, is it?” He asks, his voice challenging. “I think you knew I had it in me since the day we met.”

Mycroft huffs at that, staring at the distance.

“Father would have approved.” He says quietly, leaving John wondering whether that means Mycroft doesn’t.

“So I’ve been told.” John says simply as they both go back to their tea.

* * *

John leaves Mycroft alone on the back porch and indeed takes over packing duty. It’s time to leave.

They’ve been texting with Mrs. Hudson and they’re sensing her melancholy over spending the holiday alone. They were supposed to be there with her this year, but the last-minute change of plans meant that she couldn’t make any in hers.

By early afternoon Rosie’s is fussy and unsettled; the novelty of village life has worn off and she seems to be signalling that she feels out of place. 

Of course, the two of them are also itching to have the other all to themselves. Another night in the village suddenly seems like a lifetime before they get a chance to do the things they’d like to do to each other.

Mrs. Holmes is understanding and sends them away with enough baked goods for the rest of the holiday. 

The drive is quiet, but for the first time in years, John finally feels it’s the right type of quiet. An expectant one, a comfortable one. They’re riding home knowing - for the first time ever, he supposes - just who and what they are to each other.

And John is happy. He’s happy as they pass through the cursed suburb, the suburb which suddenly doesn’t look so intimidating. He shakes his head when he sees Edward smoking anxiously out on his front lawn, drowning the hidden pain the holidays drudge up even in the best families. The facade, the lies. Simple suburban lies, of course. No assassin wives, no detectives returning from their death, but still: lies.

John is stunned to realize it’s only been a week and a half since he sat in his garden and wondered how his life had come to be what it was. 

What a difference a few days make. 

How different the haunted house he once shared with Mary now seems. It's like seeing your childhood school and realizing it’s not as big, not as intimidating as you once thought it.

John stands and stares at the house as if challenging it to a duel.

It’s goodbye, really. It’s only a stop on their way to Baker Street. John needs to unpack and pack for a few more days away, for now at least. He has a gift for Mrs. Hudson he didn't want to forego and there’s one other thing he feels is really important that he does right now.

He puts the bags on the ground when he enters the living room, pulls the unassuming envelope Mrs. Holmes gave him from his coat pocket. He opens it up and sees he was right, right as day. It’s an old black and white photo. Taken hastily, without much thought, yet it tugs at his heartstrings. In it a young William Holmes is standing with his back to the camera in front of a large window in Musgrave Hall, holding a toddler Sherlock in his arms.

Everything about William is so Sherlock. From the curls to the shoulders and even the absentmindedly dangling house robe. It was taken when the sun was right in front of the windows, and the amount of light makes the photo look downright artistic. Sherlock is resting his small curly head blissfully on his father’s shoulder.

John smiles as he looks at the photo, then places it right in the middle of the mantle. The photo, just like the man the small child in it had grown into, becomes the focus of the cold, bare room. 

The house finally feels like a home ( _for now_ ). It’s exactly what’s been missing.

* * *

The photograph, now framed, is the first thing John unpacks three weeks later when he finishes hauling the last two duffle bags into Sherlock’s (read: their) bedroom. 

He placed the photograph on the bedside table, though that didn’t last long ( _“I’m not entirely familiar with the social norms but I believe one might prefer to avoid having his father’s photo in the same room in which he defiles his partner._ ” Sherlock said conversationally later that day and John blushed profusely. The photograph moved to the sitting room posthaste.)

* * *

John stands by the kitchen counter, ostensibly making tea. He is stirring sugar into one of the cups, though he looks nowhere near it. His eyes are stuck on Sherlock’s lean form spread over the sofa on the other end of the room.

It’s been a week since he’d moved back in and he has a problem. 

Now that he’s allowed access to said lean form, he’d developed a pavlovian response to seeing Sherlock on that sofa. His mind fills with white haze and his ears ring loudly and all he is capable of doing is - and this is not a metaphor - pounce on the man.

Sherlock had been cooperative thus far - cooperative being an unfair understatement, given the man’s enthusiastic reciprocation. They both have years of sex to catch up on and they’re faring quite well. Sherlock is nothing short of a 360 hi-fi multimedia experience in bed and John is in for the ride.

But now there’s a case and Sherlock wants to focus on it. Think about it and whatnot. John had been the main focus of Sherlock’s attention for weeks but now he’s been rebuffed, sent to make tea. 

_Tea_ . He thinks begrudgingly. _Tea_. He never hated a beverage more in his entire life.

 _Look_ , he wants to tell Sherlock. _I made some. Can I put my hand down your pants now?_

He shakes his head in astonishment at his own libido. He needs to get a grip. He must and he will, he thinks resolutely.

“Any tea left in that cup?” Sherlock’s low baritone travels through the floor straight to his groin. John looks at the half-empty cup, a victim of his wild, distracted stirring. 

“Ummm.” John blurts.

He’s frazzled until he locks eyes with Sherlock, noticing the hungry stare.

It’s pouncing time.

 _It doesn’t have to be the pants_ , he strategizes as he walks over to the sofa. There’s that pulse point on Sherlock’s clavicle John discovered a week ago. He wants to plant a flag with the Watson crest there. Because, John learned, licking circles over that specific spot and calling Sherlock “gorgeous” equals a fussy, blushing Mrs. Hudson the next morning.

It’s fucking glorious. 

Sherlock’s phone is set to silent but it vibrates furiously on the table next to them as John decides to save the best for last and stuffs his hand up Sherlock’s thin t-shirt. Sherlock is soft and musky and pliable by the time his phone rings a third and fourth time.

“John.” Sherlock breaks their kiss, looking at the phone.

“Mmmph.” John hums, unphased. He has his mouth on one nipple and a hand down Sherlock’s pants after all (it couldn’t be helped).

“ _John._ ” Sherlock says again. “It’s Lestrade.”

“Leave it. He’s a mate, he’ll understand.” John reasons as he leaves the nipple and heads to the clavicle.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, moving to grab his phone.

“Unlike you, I have a reputation to maintain.” Sherlock says, indignant.

“And I have an erection to maintain.” He purrs in the other man’s ear. “I’m not a young man anymore. Waste not want not, darling.”

Sherlock squirms beneath him at that, grabbing John’s hair as a signal to stop for a minute when he takes the call.

“What?!” Sherlock yells angrily at the man on the other end of the call.

John is nothing but persistent. He fucked his way through Afghanistan; he can lick a neck in the middle of a peaceful living room.

He stops when Sherlock’s body tenses unexpectedly, sobering up quickly.

“What is it?” John asks, raising his eyes to Sherlock's.

“It’s Lestrade.” Sherlock swallows as he offers John his phone. 

“Greg?” John asks as he takes the phone, his eyes wide with fear as his body tries to adjust to the change in the mood.

“John?” Lestrade asks loudly. He’s somewhere crowded, maybe a tube station.

“Yes? What’s wrong?” John calls loudly over the noise.

“Listen, I’m sorry mate. I wanted to tell you before you heard it someplace else.” Lestrade says.

“What..? What? Is it Harry?” 

“No, it’s Sholto.” Lestrade explains. “I… I don’t have all the information yet but he’s missing.” 

“What do you mean missing?”

“He told his staff he’s taking an overnight trip to Scotland.” Lestrade says. “Hiking. He never checked out of the room he booked. There’s a search team on the case as we speak.”

He waits for John’s response but none is coming.

“John?” Lestrade tries again.

“Yeah.” John’s voice is flat and robotic. He’s shocked and dizzy from the news as his blood moves far too quickly from one area to another. “Yeah, got it. Thanks.”

“Is Sherlock still there? Put him on.”

John passes Sherlock his phone without a word.

* * *

Hiking in February? In Scotland? Alone?

He hears Sherlock speaking to Lestrade, asking for more information. He watches him as he arranges a rental car, as he (rudely) calls for Mrs. Hudson to inquire whether she can babysit Rosie for the night.

John closes his eyes as his heart drops in a free fall.

* * *

John sits in his chair, staring at the dust travelling through unsuspecting sunbeams. He listens as Sherlock opens the door downstairs. Rosie’s voice travels as Sherlock knocks on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

Sherlock had volunteered to pick Rosie up from nursery; he didn’t want the two of them to leave for an overnight stay without settling her in with Mrs. Hudson. Now he's asking Mrs. Hudson to watch over her before even saying hello to John.

He knows what that means.

Sherlock climbs the stairs to 221B slowly. He usually skips them two at a time. His steps are heavy now.

“They found him.” John says coldly as the door opens. It’s been 4 hours since Lestrade called.

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “Lying in a freezing stream. It looks like an accident. Possibly a heart attack.”

John shakes his head in disbelief, his eyes sharp and knowing when he turns to look at Sherlock.

 _Not a heart attack._ He wants to tell him. _Just another broken, lonely heart._

* * *

“John?” Sherlock’s worried voice finally penetrates his bubble sometime later. The shadows shifted slightly, ten or maybe fifteen minutes had passed. “John?”

He turns to look at Sherlock, his eyes sharp and concerned. John lowers his eyes to the floor in confusion.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m… I’m ok.” He says, having no idea what the words mean as they leave his mouth.

“I’m sorry. I know he was your friend.” Sherlock says and John’s palm rests on his forehead as the words attack his senses. 

_He’s my friend,_ he remembers saying as he ran to Sherlock’s limp body on the ground.  
  
 _He was more than a friend_ , he wants to tell Sherlock though he knows the other man knows that. _He was… he used to be everything_ , _before you were everything. What if I lost_ you _now?_ He thinks as he inhales deeply, trying to regain control over his body.

_I let him down. I let him down, too._

He stands and walks silently toward the window, leaning his head against the glass. His eyes are closed as he shakes his head in frustration against the window.

Memories of James float to his consciousness; his beautiful smile on the day they met, his face still unscarred. A pat on the shoulder, a wince at some horrific field lunch they shared once. The unsent letters John had written to him, words of admiration and love. The resigned look he gave John on his wedding day, when John insisted on saving his life. It was as if he was ready to let go then, but John couldn’t possibly let him do that, could he?

James’ tall, proud stance as he walked away from John in Regent’s Park. John’s own dread as he saw him walk away, as he jogged after him for a few more words.

Some people live tragic lives. Just because. A random act of an uncaring universe. James’ life was just that. Short, painful, cruel. He didn’t deserve such a lonely, meaningless end; betrayed by the people who were supposed to be there for him, alone in his final days.

He feels Sherlock behind him, a wall of warmth and stability in the midst of his emotional storm. Sherlock stands there for a long minute before he speaks.

“I’m not sure what to do.” He confesses, whispering. He’s unaware, yet again, of just how much comfort having him here is to John.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing right now.” John exhales and closes his eyes again. He leans his weight backwards, knowing Sherlock’s body will be there to break his fall. They stand like that for a long time, watching the world going on as usual. 

As if a great man didn’t just die. 

As if that man didn’t just take a part of John’s heart with him.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep that night. He puts Rosie to sleep in his arms, rocking her gently in the old rocking chair he'd brought with him when they moved back to Baker Street.

He rocks her back and forth, back and forth, all night. The repetitive movement is the only thing that keeps his mind from spiralling into a bottomless abyss of guilt, fear, and shame. He holds on to her like a life raft, much like he held on to her mother before she shot the love of his life.

He likes to think he’s a simple man. Minimalistic, they call it these days. He doesn’t need, doesn’t ask for much. He doesn’t think it’s too much to ask to not pass your life watching your loved ones die, is it?

He sniffs Rosie’s head, relishing her soft baby smell. His arms are numb from holding her and his back aches from the rocking movement but he can't let her go tonight. This little girl and the man downstairs are all he has left. That’s all there is to it.

He lays his head against the rocking chair in frustration, closing his eyes in prayer. _I’ll never let you down, ever again._ He vows. _Please don’t leave me, too._

It’s the crack of dawn by the time Sherlock opens the door to Rosie’s room. He picks her up and places her in her cot, taking John’s hand in his.

John stares into space as he spoons Sherlock in their bed, holding onto him far too tightly. He holds back his sobs as he takes Sherlock’s scent in.

They're not immortal. They won't live together, forever. He wakes up every day hoping to die before Sherlock does so he doesn't have to experience living in a world without Sherlock Holmes ever again.

He knows Sherlock well enough to know Sherlock prays for the opposite; that Sherlock cannot imagine, would not accept a Watson-less world.

He takes another sniff of his scent, memorizing it.

Just in case.

* * *

John stands at the top of a sprawling hill, watching over the proceedings of James’ funeral. The cemetery is small and quiet, exactly what you’d expect from one serving a small cluster of villages. The February air is cold and crisp. The delicate scent of the few flowers spread over the more recent grave teases John’s nose.

He knew James wouldn’t be buried in a military cemetery, but it hurts that he didn’t get the honour he deserved nonetheless. He supposes he’ll never be able to reconcile the commander he remembers from Afghanistan with the man James was after his fall from grace.

John was conflicted about coming, about attending the funeral. He knew there'd only a handful of people. He isn’t even sure there are any family members, certainly not immediate ones. Alexander isn’t here. Everyone in attendance looks like they feel slightly out of place, slightly put out. He ventures a guess that the one in the grey suit was sent over by a veterans' organization, the only hint to James’ sacrifice for this country.

He didn’t need James’ final humiliation memorized in his head, but he couldn’t bear the thought of not being here.

He swallows hard when he remembers the purgatory that was his days between returning from Afghanistan and meeting Sherlock. He remembers opening the drawer in that wretched little bedsit, pulling out his laptop and looking at his gun.

He was days away from pulling the trigger when he stepped into the lab in Barts. He only obliged Mike’s invitation because really, he had nothing better to do.

He would have been dead today if Sherlock wasn’t in that lab.

Is this what his funeral would have looked like? Short, perfunctory, unremarkable? 

Life had been a roller coaster of ups and downs since the day he'd met Sherlock, but it brought with it all these friendships, all these people into his life. If he died today, it wouldn’t go unnoticed. There are people who care for him, who’d be sad to see him go.

Once the funeral proceedings are over and the few attendants leave, he finally feels comfortable approaching the grave. There is no headstone yet, only a plaque with James’ name. Someday soon there will be a one, though; a simple one, just like the one they put on Sherlock’s grave years ago.

The similarities between the only two men he’d chosen to fall in love with do not escape him. The intrigue, the mystique, the desire to peel layer after layer in hopes of finding the tender heart lying beneath it all in hopes of winning it.

He failed at that with James. 

He’s still peeling away in Sherlock’s case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, a short epilogue, is coming on Tuesday ❤


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leaves a grave behind, takes the tube here, stares at the building angrily for an hour, then goes home to find a thoroughly alive Sherlock playing the violin or mumbling to the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks imagesymboltext for a quick beta of the epilogue (I got cold feet about it and she helped me through it)!
> 
> Final notes from me at the end.

John sits on a bench, exhaling loudly. His breath turns to white fog in the cold March air, but he doesn’t mind the temperatures. 

He scrolls through an online article on his phone. Bill Murray had sent him the link this morning. It’s an obituary written in James’ memory, co-authored by a number of officers who served under him and remember him fondly. 

He’s been reading it again and again for the past hour, his melancholy taking over. Luckily, there’d been no negative comments on the article thus far, but something about seeing it published gives James’ death a sort of finality.

The last few months have been tinged by the memory of people he’d loved and had to bury. 

William’s memorial was respectful and uneventful (as uneventful as things can get with the Holmes clan). James’ funeral. The anniversary of Mary’s passing. They took Rosie’s to her grave for the first time. She’d chased Sherlock around the cemetery. It was incredibly inappropriate; he couldn’t help but laugh. Harry even tagged along when, inspired by recent events, John decided to visit his mother’s grave.

Yet, after each visit to a cemetery, he ends up here. At the foot of an imposing building in central London; the building that brought on the one death that his heart never fully recovered from. He leaves a grave behind, takes the tube here, stares at the building angrily for an hour, then goes home to find a thoroughly alive Sherlock playing the violin or mumbling at the ceiling.

He’s had enough of cemeteries and graveyards for a lifetime. He needs to let go and move on, he knows, like he always has.  _ This isn’t healthy _ , he thinks.  _ It’s time to leave the dead alone and return to the land of the living. _

As if by magic, beckoned by John’s self-reproach, a consulting detective ( _ the only one in the world _ ) materializes by his side. He joins John on the bench with his hands in his pockets, crossing his legs.

Sherlock glances down at John’s phone screen, scanning its contents. He waits for a beat before speaking.

“He was a good man.”

“That’s exactly what he said about you.” John chuckles and turns to look at Sherlock. 

“Hmmm.” Sherlock hums knowingly. “He loved you.” 

“No, he didn’t.” John shakes his head. “He’d made that very clear.”

“Of course he loved you, John.” Sherlock says, sounding like he’d never been surer of anything in his entire life.

John swallows in shock. 

“I’m a man in love with John Watson. I know one when I see one.” Sherlock continues, looking straight ahead and avoiding John’s eyes. “He couldn’t admit it to himself for a long time and by the time he did, it was too late. I know the feeling.” 

John averts his eyes, disbelieving.

“Well, even if he did, what’s the point of knowing now?” John asks helplessly.

“There’s no point, I suppose. But maybe he would have liked you to know.” Sherlock murmurs. He stops for a moment then continues. “I saw myself in him in many ways, John. I know what you are, what you were, for both of us. You were the one man who saw past the monster everyone else saw when they looked at us. You believed in him and you believed in me when no one else did. You were loyal to him and you’re loyal to me still, even though I betrayed your trust so many times.”

John blinks as tears fog his eyes.

“Sometimes I think of you as… as my human credential.” Sherlock says and John turns to look at him, looking for clarification.

“What…” John starts. “What does that mean?”

“It means that since the day I met you I felt like when people see us together they think: ‘if this man can stand him, there must be something to him after all.’ They think that if someone like you sees something human in me, I can’t be that hateful, that terrible. I know you and James weren’t close, but I’m sure after the wedding, after Alexander and Gabriel, he felt the same way about you.”

Speechless, John looks ahead. They've confessed about their feelings for each other at Christmas, but Sherlock had never spoken such words since. The enormity of their meaning makes John dizzy.

“And I’m sorry that you lost him.” Sherlock says. “I’m sorry he broke your heart. I’m sure it broke his heart to do so, just as much. Although I’ll admit I’m a selfish man and I’m glad to be the one who won you after all. I’m only sorry it’s under such terrible circumstances.”

_ Terrible circumstances _ . John thinks bitterly.  _ Just another in a chain of deaths and pain that is my life.  _

“He didn’t deserve to die like that.” John says, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“Nobody deserves to die the way they do, John.” Sherlock says. “Did Mary deserve to die so young and leave her daughter behind? Did Eurus deserve her psychosis, leaving her essentially dead to the world? Did father? Did your mother?”

John breathes in, then out, in an attempt to expel the pain Sherlock’s questions bring.

“What’s the purpose of all this, Sherlock? Everything we’ve been through?” John sniffs uncomfortably. “It feels like everyone else around us is dropping like flies and we’re the only ones left standing.”

Sherlock shakes his head thoughtfully as he considers his next words.

“There’s no purpose to any of this, John. Not the way I see it.” Sherlock says. “Life is transient. We’re supposed to be born, procreate and die. It’s not meant to last. If there’s any purpose to it, it’s the one we make of it while we’re still alive.”

John considers his words, finding no response.

“I’ve felt purposeless my entire life, John.” Sherlock confesses. “I rather hoped chasing criminlas or snorting cocaine or bringing down crime cartels would help me find it.”

“And?” John asks, sniffing and tearing up.

“And I didn’t.” Sherlock continues. “And… at some point, I’m not sure when I… I decided you were  _ it _ . You are my purpose. And I know it upsets you, the way it manifests. In my willingness to do anything for your happiness. To kill and die and to step aside and let someone else have you. But it’s up to us to choose our purpose, John, and you’re mine. That’s the only way anything in this world makes sense to me.”

John gapes at Sherlock as he listens to his words, floored by their depth and intensity.

Sherlock has a way of creeping up on John’s heart, he always had. John would think he’d caught a glimpse of his deepest recesses, and then Sherlock would go and say something like  _ that _ . He’s supposed to be the romantic one. Sherlock used to joke about poems and girlfriends. But John knows well enough by now that Sherlock  _ feels _ . John has had his doubts about that, but he'd been sorely mistaken.

Sherlock loves. Fiercely, intensely, irrevocably. More than anyone John has ever met, really. “God, Sherlock.” He speaks finally, shaking his head with emotion. “How do I even...”

_ How do I even respond to that? _ He wants to say. 

Sherlock smiles a sad, eye-crinkling smile. He nods in understanding.

_ He knows _ . John assures himself.  _ He knows _ .

They stay there a while longer, keeping each other warm and safe.

“You’ve been coming here a lot.” Sherlock says knowingly. “Nice bench?” 

John chuckles bitterly. There’s nothing nice about why he’s been coming here, and Sherlock knows that. “Have you been following me?” He asks.

Sherlock shrugs, his mock-frown the answer to John’s rhetorical question; it means ‘Of course I have’ and ‘It’s what I do’ and ‘I’m worried about you’ and ‘I love you too’.

“There  _ are _ nicer benches in London. I could show you some if you’d like.” Sherlock says, then lowers his beautiful baritone even further. “This building can’t hurt you anymore, John.”

John looks away, stunned as always by Sherlock’s perception.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Shall we?” He asks as he stands up.

John sniffs again, then takes a big, stabilizing breath. He closes his eyes, grounding himself back in reality. He nods in agreement to Sherlock’s promise of nicer benches, and maybe, hopefully, better days.

“Good.” Sherlock nods resolutely. 

He waits for John to join him, their shoulders brushing. They walk away together quietly, wordlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. This story is especially personal to me; like Sherlock in this story, I too lost a father to dementia — as well as a sibling. In fact, William is quite similar here to my own father, and some anecdotes about him and Sherlock are actually borrowed from our own family's story.
> 
> Grief and bereavement have been a big part of my life for years and I'm glad to say I came out stronger for it. Without even realizing, this story became an exploration of my experiences and learnings on how to deal with them.
> 
> My biggest lesson has been that depression is conquerable. Really, it is. I've been at its most terrible depths, I know what it feels like. It's a fight you have to face every day, but if you make a decision to beat it and arm yourself with the right tools, it IS possible. If you're battling with depression, know that it can have long-lasting effects on your body and your soul - much like it did on William's brain, for example. Don't let yourself sink deeper into depression - hold on to whomever and whatever you can to help you pull yourself out of it. I'm lucky to have a supportive network of family and friends as well as an accessible health system.
> 
> If you're depressed but no one in your circles of family or friends understands you, you can speak to a GP, a social worker, helplines and therapists; they're all there to help you! They were not only trained to support someone in your situation, they actually CHOSE to do that for a living. Isn't that amazing? Give them a chance (and know that it takes time to find something/someone that works, and it takes time to see results, so don't give up! It's a lifelong process.)
> 
> Writing these lines is even more important these days, in the midst of covid-19. It's an exceptionally difficult time for everyone, you are absolutely not alone in feeling like the entire world has turned against you. Covid-19 brought to light plenty of remote healthcare solutions like BetterHelp and the likes. Use them. Speak out. Tell people how you feel. I promise you there will be at least one person on this planet that will offer a helping hand. Remember: it is conquerable.
> 
> I'm working on a bunch of new stories these days, though I'm only starting out on them. I hope you join me again in the future.
> 
> Stay safe!  
> -S


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